Mar 2018
The gaunt faces of Indian grannies telling stories of nasty ******
Crushed between two bigassed African girls,
Their stick houses crashing down around the Crusaders—
Her face hurting from wedging her tongue so far up mother’s ***
British eyes eating *** like starving bare feet blindly
Running through desert corridors of the sun—
The round faces of geometric grannies telling nasty Indian ***** stories—
Crushed between two big African girls, stick houses crashing down on the Crusaders; her dreamy-eyed film flat on her back and nervous—
Suckling the tiger’s ****, a mother and daughter that could be twins—
Model wearing tweed dresses with matching short jackets,
American Vogue on August 15, 1954,
Bettie, Rothko, and me reading aloud
From Job’s laptop to a deaf tiger, she gnashing her dialectical teeth—
The blonde in boxer shorts losses her 3rd eye,
False teeth and Russian accent in the Crimea—
Yesterday, today and tomorrow—
Headless women souls forgotten yet sanctified,
A mother to us all to prove Evolution
You’d have to go back in time and find the first ****
That ever crawled from the sea starving, hysterical and naked—
Her **** like sweat soaked mountains
As she ***** into the mouth of an ugly girl
As if she were ******* into a *** of gold—
If she were my granny I’d **** her **** all night
Mother-like sister and sister-like daughter
Speaking in squares and cubes over Archimedes’
Her mother’s *** yours like sweet Sonia of the rock,
Too often your wife has been seen out after dark,
Arab girls in school thwarted by butchers.
Press freedom in Bangladesh underground
Like the comic book lives of the Sainted Virgins—
1,000 Mothers dreaming of their mirrors reflections—
British eyes eating their *** like starving bare feet blindly
Running through the desert corridors of the sun—
The round faces of grannies telling stories of nasty Indian ******
Crushed between two big African girls,
Stick houses crashing down on the Crusaders—
Her face hurting from wedging her tongue so far up her mother’s ***
Suckling the tiger’s **** a mother and married daughter that could be twins
Yesterday, today and tomorrow—
The geometric yellow faces telling stories of nasty Indian ******
The wives of Satan’s bloated purple tongues,
Their fish eyes gouged out by naked frog-faced demons
Johnny Gutai ran away from his grandmother’s in the light of the full yellow moon leaving his gyaru girlfriend passed out on the floor—
A **** so black with a heart as cold as stone
Yet her ******* smelled like cinnamon,
She’d jump through hoops for Johnny,
**** his friends and set herself on fire—
She’d drink **** and ***** in public places
And always had a smile for his grandmother,
Her love was like something from a black and white movie,
The inside of her **** burnt with cigarettes—
Johnny used to tell her he loved her then cut her cheek with broken glass,
When she cried he’d suffocate her with a pillowcase
While he laughed and drank cold beer
She was the perfect woman with golden teeth
Who knew all of Shakespeare’s words by heart,
Her father was a successful banker, Yoko Ono her role model—
Johnny was going to be a Gutai star
And make paintings from her flesh,
she dyed her hair blonde for him and learned to walk like Jean Harlow—
But he ****** her head so hard she went deaf and crazy
And couldn’t tell her face from the mirror’s reflection—
Somewhere a cat cried for milk and her once lovely eyes
Were bloodshot from the strain,
The full moon was the queen of the night,
Grandmother drunk face down on the mat—
This was Johnny’s chance and he ****** her hairy ******* all night,
Not all night because she woke up and rolled over
And wanted to get fingered without really waking up
And she dreamed that it was Johnny who died on a Kamikaze mission
Against the Americans in the pacific
But it was the North Korean boy she loved
Who brought her home and shared her body with his father—
His mother drunk, a ***** and a **** who gave her ***** away
To anyone for the mere asking while he painted poison portraits
Of Golden Age Hollywood stars with tar on canvas
And showed them at the Modern Art museum
Where a ****** was in love with him—
Johnny Gutai was a pornographic hero
Who ****** his grandmother and beat his girlfriend ******,
Who ran off, got married and changed his name—
He never wanted to go back in time,
Wanting to stay in the future where all was fine
Until he had a daughter who had golden eyes
And his wife committed ritual suicide—
And his grandmother came to live with them, her ***** sporting a bright yellow bush in a ****-covered stall in a bathroom in the bowels of New York,
A queer smiles through the blood and broken teeth thankful for the fix—
As she ****** some Arab reading, cursing the New York Times,
On her knees in fishnets in November, cold as hell inside and out,
An Australian girl got drunk with me
And now she’s having my baby,
In a philosophical smack-down between Ayn Rand and the Marquis de Sade
Ayn Rand would take down Sade hard and he’d love it, winning by TKO—
Then she’d **** his precious perfumed *****
Like a good Russian bourgeois—
Pleading with her French lover to come hotly in her mouth,
In her mind she pretends to be the Greek Cleopatra
******* the ***** of Midnight stalking albino cowboys
Who tell her they’re gay but it doesn’t matter, holding hands in love in the dark using his tee shirt to swab the sweat from her Holy orthodox backside
He sodomizes her roughly until her **** bleeds,
Calling her a man repeatedly until she believes him,
And she feels a rush through her veins like chlorine through chocolate—
I thought the city was on fire but it was just a man in the street lighting matches; he attended Yavneh of Telshe Yeshivah and became a geisha in the heart of Tokyo lusting after Jesus in her stockings in the garden,
Her flesh smooth as the Queen of Sheba’s divine breast milk—
Cell 16 won’t show their **** while being invitro fertilized by their dads—
Fathers and sons setting themselves on fire like the Buddha foretold,
No celibacy, no lesbians, no digital photography,
But she ***** horses, Judy O’Day crawling to the door
Love to a teenager is but a dialectical tool,
The geisha’s leash turning to wet cabbage,
Her mother getting shoved under a moving freight train—
Spraying her open mouth with pesticides,
Jessie watching television all night long, “Number 12 Looks Just Like You”
I prayed to the Lord that your mother would let me come in her mouth
After ******* her throat and the Lord answered my prayer
There were seven teenagers in the alley one talking like Noam Chomsky—
As brunette as Stella Adler, Tuesday Weld wasn’t in the Godfather
Because she was on the other side of the world
Stretching her ***** open with sticky fingers—
Eaten out by a geisha girl that could pass for a Latina
She’d be a witch if she were in Angola or Salem back in the day—
Her blonde ***** **** mother gang-***** by cobras—
Crushed between two bigassed African girls,
Their stick houses crashing down around the Crusaders—
Her face hurting from wedging her tongue so far up mother’s ***
British eyes eating *** like starving bare feet blindly
Running through desert corridors of the sun—
The round faces of geometric grannies telling nasty Indian ***** stories—
Crushed between two big African girls, stick houses crashing down on the Crusaders; her dreamy-eyed film flat on her back and nervous—
Suckling the tiger’s ****, a mother and daughter that could be twins—
Model wearing tweed dresses with matching short jackets,
American Vogue on August 15, 1954,
Bettie, Rothko, and me reading aloud
From Job’s laptop to a deaf tiger, she gnashing her dialectical teeth—
The blonde in boxer shorts losses her 3rd eye,
False teeth and Russian accent in the Crimea—
Yesterday, today and tomorrow—
Headless women souls forgotten yet sanctified,
A mother to us all to prove Evolution
You’d have to go back in time and find the first ****
That ever crawled from the sea starving, hysterical and naked—
Her **** like sweat soaked mountains
As she ***** into the mouth of an ugly girl
As if she were ******* into a *** of gold—
If she were my granny I’d **** her **** all night
Mother-like sister and sister-like daughter
Speaking in squares and cubes over Archimedes’
Her mother’s *** yours like sweet Sonia of the rock,
Too often your wife has been seen out after dark,
Arab girls in school thwarted by butchers.
Press freedom in Bangladesh underground
Like the comic book lives of the Sainted Virgins—
1,000 Mothers dreaming of their mirrors reflections—
British eyes eating their *** like starving bare feet blindly
Running through the desert corridors of the sun—
The round faces of grannies telling stories of nasty Indian ******
Crushed between two big African girls,
Stick houses crashing down on the Crusaders—
Her face hurting from wedging her tongue so far up her mother’s ***
Suckling the tiger’s **** a mother and married daughter that could be twins
Yesterday, today and tomorrow—
The geometric yellow faces telling stories of nasty Indian ******
The wives of Satan’s bloated purple tongues,
Their fish eyes gouged out by naked frog-faced demons
Johnny Gutai ran away from his grandmother’s in the light of the full yellow moon leaving his gyaru girlfriend passed out on the floor—
A **** so black with a heart as cold as stone
Yet her ******* smelled like cinnamon,
She’d jump through hoops for Johnny,
**** his friends and set herself on fire—
She’d drink **** and ***** in public places
And always had a smile for his grandmother,
Her love was like something from a black and white movie,
The inside of her **** burnt with cigarettes—
Johnny used to tell her he loved her then cut her cheek with broken glass,
When she cried he’d suffocate her with a pillowcase
While he laughed and drank cold beer
She was the perfect woman with golden teeth
Who knew all of Shakespeare’s words by heart,
Her father was a successful banker, Yoko Ono her role model—
Johnny was going to be a Gutai star
And make paintings from her flesh,
she dyed her hair blonde for him and learned to walk like Jean Harlow—
But he ****** her head so hard she went deaf and crazy
And couldn’t tell her face from the mirror’s reflection—
Somewhere a cat cried for milk and her once lovely eyes
Were bloodshot from the strain,
The full moon was the queen of the night,
Grandmother drunk face down on the mat—
This was Johnny’s chance and he ****** her hairy ******* all night,
Not all night because she woke up and rolled over
And wanted to get fingered without really waking up
And she dreamed that it was Johnny who died on a Kamikaze mission
Against the Americans in the pacific
But it was the North Korean boy she loved
Who brought her home and shared her body with his father—
His mother drunk, a ***** and a **** who gave her ***** away
To anyone for the mere asking while he painted poison portraits
Of Golden Age Hollywood stars with tar on canvas
And showed them at the Modern Art museum
Where a ****** was in love with him—
Johnny Gutai was a pornographic hero
Who ****** his grandmother and beat his girlfriend ******,
Who ran off, got married and changed his name—
He never wanted to go back in time,
Wanting to stay in the future where all was fine
Until he had a daughter who had golden eyes
And his wife committed ritual suicide—
And his grandmother came to live with them, her ***** sporting a bright yellow bush in a ****-covered stall in a bathroom in the bowels of New York,
A queer smiles through the blood and broken teeth thankful for the fix—
As she ****** some Arab reading, cursing the New York Times,
On her knees in fishnets in November, cold as hell inside and out,
An Australian girl got drunk with me
And now she’s having my baby,
In a philosophical smack-down between Ayn Rand and the Marquis de Sade
Ayn Rand would take down Sade hard and he’d love it, winning by TKO—
Then she’d **** his precious perfumed *****
Like a good Russian bourgeois—
Pleading with her French lover to come hotly in her mouth,
In her mind she pretends to be the Greek Cleopatra
******* the ***** of Midnight stalking albino cowboys
Who tell her they’re gay but it doesn’t matter, holding hands in love in the dark using his tee shirt to swab the sweat from her Holy orthodox backside
He sodomizes her roughly until her **** bleeds,
Calling her a man repeatedly until she believes him,
And she feels a rush through her veins like chlorine through chocolate—
I thought the city was on fire but it was just a man in the street lighting matches; he attended Yavneh of Telshe Yeshivah and became a geisha in the heart of Tokyo lusting after Jesus in her stockings in the garden,
Her flesh smooth as the Queen of Sheba’s divine breast milk—
Cell 16 won’t show their **** while being invitro fertilized by their dads—
Fathers and sons setting themselves on fire like the Buddha foretold,
No celibacy, no lesbians, no digital photography,
But she ***** horses, Judy O’Day crawling to the door
Love to a teenager is but a dialectical tool,
The geisha’s leash turning to wet cabbage,
Her mother getting shoved under a moving freight train—
Spraying her open mouth with pesticides,
Jessie watching television all night long, “Number 12 Looks Just Like You”
I prayed to the Lord that your mother would let me come in her mouth
After ******* her throat and the Lord answered my prayer
There were seven teenagers in the alley one talking like Noam Chomsky—
As brunette as Stella Adler, Tuesday Weld wasn’t in the Godfather
Because she was on the other side of the world
Stretching her ***** open with sticky fingers—
Eaten out by a geisha girl that could pass for a Latina
She’d be a witch if she were in Angola or Salem back in the day—
Her blonde ***** **** mother gang-***** by cobras—
