She farts Arcadian mist squared—
Her wrinkled *** an antique knowing no love in this lifetime,
Seducing Austin like a satanic snake
With thumb ******* hips writing code—
She loves him with her tipsy lost cherry,

Mesmerized by his calluses,
Mabel’s ghost haunts the disused rooms—
Betsy Johnson’s silver eyes
Sapphic dreams of the brown mother,
Until I find you I constantly walk backwards into the ocean—
******* for the fat girl’s psychology,
Redheaded Libra mother’s dream detective,
Soul of a glorious *****’s blank pages

Barefoot, not a child with a *****
So close yet risen hypnotized—
Square gated back to the beginning,
Secretly a **** and almost famous in France—
You and Italy made of stone,
She anonymous and unknown,
The librarian’s bare feet and shiny red leather miniskirt

I search for her sunlit eyes, random love, time and insistence
She has cigarettes for eyes and farts Arcadian mist,
I don’t know why I gave up on love
And one-dimensional disillusionment
Filling twenty-four pages with an ode to an ugly girl
The real world is not a **** place
Filled with mirrors
Brits love the queen but she only loves her dogs,
Tired of posing for Bunny Yeager,
Bettie Page retired,

Speculating on the Higgs Field made her choke on her own *****,
Swallowing her tongue making her wet,
Was Emily Dickinson an epileptic?
Did she ******* while her brother was banging Mabel in the next room? Had she read Baudelaire,
The Marquis De Sade, Poe, Whitman and Rimbaud?
Did she smoke marijuana and snort *******—

Then what did she know of angels and infinity
And the troglodytes that once walked the earth
And the witches that once flew on brooms over Amherst—
And the Victorian ****** that walked the streets
Her Farts Arcadian mist