Her shoulders, when viewed through an infrared lens,
mimicked the frail battle shimmy of savage devilfish
swindlers two-fold; tempting but disposable,
whimsical with weakness, and furious like bleeding cuticles on a dying shrine carpenter.
Dancing illegally and fed sinking teeth and circular saw secretions with cannibals,
we were left suffering to our own devices,
stained in charming marble nurseries by the reflective river currents
of mercurial transcendence and self-enlightenment.
We were clothed by the Parisian sun—scintillating satisfaction,
warmth from embrace, divine and inerrant.
Loosening her sandals with rose water, she drew an orgasmic
bath where she revealed to me the nature of her scales and the
penalty for denying the thick leech costumes of sensory deprivation.
Death in the afternoon
was always suitable, and we’d shamble
effortlessly unto bearded-Mary mezzanines, perching against
elderly banisters unctuous with sulfur and petrol from Molotov cocktails.
We’d spend our mornings overlooking intersections overloaded with possessed life-contestants,
rabid for parking spaces and monitored overhead like squirming
infants by officious overlord executives—sucking for dear life the vaporous aura of vintage macanudos.
Good food fulfilling free love for drama queens, free of consequence,
plunderers took turns playfully nibbling the wrinkled gizzards of disintegrating coffin-dodgers.
My sisters would draw straws to have at the hog-tying of dimpled
cheesecake dolls, the Cadillac of kidnap, and 5th grade procreation.
Fat on plasma in July, we were knee deep in the open sore syndrome of blackmail,
Trading shark tank pyrotechnics for kissing booths…
Unconcerned with petty repercussions, I withdrew from the dharma façade
of protests and excrement and fastened my beloved valentine
in soft brown rope. Stuck in a trunk, pleading in common decibels,
all the while makeshift gags disguised selfless saboteurs self-mutilating.
She would carry on ordinarily, a stunning mutt with long wasp legs
sheathed in the shadow of nylon fibers; rendered as useless as her
voice in the lame shore of bastard percussion.
All the while makeshift gags disguised the delicious skills of freckled jailbait,
pinkish with spunk and puckish with minion pubescence.
The scalpel ballet was revisited in ether dreams in the form of oozing pineal glands,
and the convulsion of eyelids engaged in the hollow optic mantra of our forefathers.
The wretched dessert nap left us feeling fatigued with scabbed knees,
betwixt the finer flesh of fractured thighs and languid human windmills.
Alas! Balloon tanks against raw nerves, sharpened slits gasping to the
hum of amphibian banter.
Serpentine nails slither to bind my shallow meat
like the rod of Hermes on a Kaleidoscope holiday;
all the while makeshift gags disguise the parisian cerebrum lurking
in sane but visceral sight.
Dress Up Like Mommy Day
All in black plastic trash bags!
Fried chicken eating
strings around each tooth pulling,
shadow puppets piece of mind.
In black plastic trash bags floating up the beck between the tawny hemispheres of your head.
Norman Rockwell wants his mind’s-eye’s back!
Gift-wrapped and captivating ears, nose, and throat.
Uranian presence at birth supposedly denotes you had postnasal drip while probing through a social simulation of a very secretive history where you were somebody feared and/or loved by the consumer public of the 7th planet from the sun.
Got driver-ant’s in your sugar cereals—skuzzy stratospheric rangers despoiling prefab constellations,
it’s all part of your persistent doodling alien panoramas of imaginary worlds.
Look at your ripped jeans, designer haircut, gym pass, emergency taurine soft-drinks…
No tulips worth your time will grace anyone of interest’s gardens.
All hip with your 8-pack, goddamn parkour—Social Engineer!
Christmas strings bring out all your chiseled features in anomalous bicycle traffic.
Gridlocked baby-boomer’s daft have got a four pack of smart drinks, they’ll work late into the night.
Middle sex-educated pain in the ass with your soy threads and solar-powered mailbag.
Drops of cherry codeine in this swollen vanilla malt;
Gargling peroxide in dumb Ouranos sunrise-to-sunset, winter kill in vaulted sky
(‘s the ultimate high.)
Sore throat and halitosis don’t mind, calamine along your stocky forearms and over the tops of your slippery
jailbird’s hands… There’s so much sumac where the pharmies go.
Depending upon the population density—others avoid, you know you’re their whore!
Sprockets in the freewheel; engine driven rearing up and boxing your core with its front paws.
We all got company cars, stamped pens, decals, drug samples, bumper stickers,
and a directional prosthesis modification, so we might attempt to spider-walk up the walls.
It was solacing to know that if we got our limbs caught in a trunk latch or trash compacter
we could detach them like spare-part-puzzle pieces with a joint manipulation.
“How much can you bench?!”
Your fragile little boy-like body beneath the shambles of a school desk during a fire drill.
“How strong are you?”
Trilled some 9-foot siafu spewing groundward from the bile hydrants to take back what was always theirs.
We’ll surely pay the price tonight cause someone careless lost the drain plugs!
I dropped a goldenrod tablet of antacid into the chipped crystal community drinking receptacle.
It was full to the rim at the time with room temperature pickling brine,
all the brutes went boozing in the pools we used to baptize in.
I put on some fire engine red peep-toe platform pumps,
followed by an ultra-smooth seamless low-rise scalloped thong with hearts and halos.
Brand new cross-braced garters clasping my somber ruffle-top thigh-highs.
I wore a bubblegum pink, 100% cotton baby doll camisole over a supernatural brassiere
(both of which bunny-hugged my hairy manly chest as if there were no tomorrow).
You got the nitty-gritty on dress up like mommy day,
playing footsy in the hot tub is just prefect for the Wednesday night fever.
In a “Hole In Juan,” I am Jehovah!
Salt and pepper hair introducing the lobe.
From behind the divider, she threw over the edge of the rice-paper screen each article of clothing in chronological order.
Pant suit, then lingerie, then skin, muscle tissue…
Her circulatory system matched the curtains and added a certain ambiance that would put Martha Stewart to shame.
Beatniks reciting Man-gina Monologues in interzone coffee shops or not,
Evian spelt backwards is still naïve.
Single Monday morning, single mother motor-oiled.
Swapping scrambled eggs, careful and attentive love,
the big cracked coffeepot, newspaper inked semicolon
and the words “they said nothing before the” on her thumb.
45 years young and it’s finally promising to give you what you’ve wanted.
Furthest reaches, louder echoes for indentured servitude.
God what you wouldn’t do for a baby’s lips around your left and idle nipple.
All the things we do to kill the time while the rain is pouring down.