The chaos poem does not adhere to the laws of time
Yet takes up space. The chaos poem is not confessional or true.
Women are built upside down.
Their hands are where their feet should be
And their feet are where their hands should be.
They have a ***** for a face and a mouth for an ***.
A father is a ****** with a time machine—
He can go back in time and **** your mother
Then into the future to **** your daughter’s college roommate
Infinite unknown choices of colors and silver lashes,
A priest and a supermodel challenging the philosophy of dawn
Penelope escaping naked and painted through her eyelids,
Regina scolding the dark honey and apple pie,
As Irish mothers’ tales of an ugly ****
Challenge to the philosophy of dawn—
There should be no center and its boundaries difficult to find.
Admitting she’s a lesbian with no shame,
The sound of her voice getting the dog drunk
Making me see into the future,
The ideal, the real and neither,
The perpendicular road following the course of an arrow,
Milky ***** leaking from the sides of her face,
Dreaming of Irene’s pure box of ice, smelling of lye,
Sleeping in her wig but not her bra and *******,
Calling the machine her adolescent witch,
Not a ***** from the fourth dimension—
Sure as Saint Bettie puts her stockings on,
As pure as her stockings, stock photos trying to imitate her
For fifty years hence, for what its worth—
Penelope’s purple shrouded eyes meaning a lot to me,
The sound of her voice in my ear like Christ’s—
Getting the dog drunk on iced pink cocktails,
Her shadow grim in the pink moonlight of the almighty
Regina the tarantula crawling up your arm is a prince,
With godlike eyes Regina and Penelope escape naked
Into Ashley’s eternal summer, painting in the woods—
Regina knows me too well and I only know
What the meat of her clogged sphincter tastes like—
Courtney in her rainbow underwear,
Heidi hanging upside down from a tree,
Round and made of wood too—
Chaos burning through her eyelids like a laser, pretty and pink—
There is a machine built into nature that creates sensation.
The chaos poem should not have a beginning or an ending.
Her dollhouse filled with elemental magic
And the Holy Spirits of cavemen, souls for rent—
The Goddess of snakes crawling through the grass
This world too impatient for love,
The clockwork movements of the atomic elements—
Should her body become the residence of God
In the forest of burnt trees, chaos will take us there,
Her black bra of freedom hanging on the post—
Like one thousand naked women in *******,
Jove devouring his grandchildren in a ****** feast
Given the empty heart, of the black leather clad mother,
Her salt-filled soul spilling onto the beach,
That made her stop puking on the yacht
Crystalline and sublime guitar gods of time—
Sad Italian films of mothers’ faces, sawing a woman in two—
Your Gypsy daughter will cry for you, swearing she’s Greek,
Swearing she’s Greek but not the mother of Frankenstein—
Erasing her mind cheerleaders climb mountains
To get in ugly girls’ faces when Saturday comes,
She’ll bring her Gothic drums to trade for kisses,
Tearing her apart in the Russian sunlight,
Her tattooed ****** *** milking her nostrils—
Forcing her love through a keyhole in Spanish Harlem,
A mother loving her ***** and handcuffs,
Her beauty attracting flies to her all-powerful Cubist glamour—
I have memories of blonde demons and angels torturing her,
Her stocking feet leading on the road to heaven—
We all know where mothers come from
Drunk and dreaming like ants kissed by fiery angels.
She’ll be all right, smiling with destiny in her eyes—
The universal clock of boy-love doesn’t touch motherhood,
How eternity winds down and starts again
Thriving in the Paris underground—
I might marry her, depending on her dream life
As if she were too beautiful to forget her storied fate,
Her prophesies ringing true like church bells
Or the moon at sundown, her sky filled with miracles—
Christ riding into Jerusalem where Netanyahu Sr.
Greets him, the dolls in their Disney disguises,
The charms of heaven dangling like witches,
Jewish hookers, ***** slattern housewives,
Slags of all blemishes, Indian and Pakistani—
Her love of the mountains, her dollhouse
Filled with elemental magic and alchemical homunculi
Who pass themselves off as the rioting Monads—
I want to be the man who comes in Cindy Sherman’s mouth
The ideal form is the abstract form,
Since no part of it can be admitted to as a mistake—
In this regard woman is the exact opposite
Of the ideal since she can in every part be admitted
To as a mistake but in the case of woman,
What could be more perfect than to be imperfect in every part.
