This one is for you since you’re fucking listening
Travesty to you is the improper installation
Of meaningless generic artwork, in a building of lies.
“Crimes against the s-e-l-l-l-l-l-f…” we whine.
Combustion canisters, all talk, and no action.
He taps, taps, taps on heaven’s door.
What a joke!
If you care about a pink quilt piece of shit,
And the way they went on showing it to you;
You had best begin fathoming the indiscretions I have taken
With the symmetrical layering of the army surplus linen.
Do you know the geometry of the sheet,
And the static charm of dusty television sets?
All of this mania identical,
All of the routine frantic.
Distraction more urgent to me than pills in shades of butterscotch,
Or oxygen itself.
This my art, daily art, mundane torturous beauty.
It asserts itself in the dull grey of the prairie high-school play quality backdrop, mockingly.
True, epic, travesty:
May I ask, have you felt the crushing half-attended nullification
That involves gum in a pillow case?
In terms of sex:
It’s possible that we could tale cold showers
And, cleanly, be done with this.
“But you just keep me hanging on.”
I slither down low to the ground and play pretend I am in Fellini’s films.
We watch a movie directed by a different Italian;
Di Notti Di Cabiria, and he makes me an alluring nigress
(Like the one I gave to you.)
You know the one, we watched it together,
On an afternoon you could not otherwise occupy.
Watching the women paraded like thoroughbreds
The manes of the teenager’s dark as pitch
So very low… low to the ground.
I was aroused by some deadly eroticism that appealed to my inferiority complex.
I want to be an animal in grainy eight millimeter
But, I know I’m too privileged.
Instead, in terms of sex:
Smother my face with second hand romance novels,
Then read to me aloud from them,While very, very high on cocaine.
That’ll teach me, teach me good.
Oh the unmistakable mildewed scent of irrelevant vanilla, softcore tripe.
Breath into me some viral perversion
The glow of the yellowed shot glasses all around us
I’m in the forest
I jingle the keys in my fingers suggestively
A Virgin Mary Decal;
patron Saint of the house, the ignition, the trunk And the Princeton.
You should have seen me toting her – all spoiled and rife with sensual deviance.
Oh Madonna, this time I am your son.
A boyish maiden with hair swept back in androgyny, glossed lips
A striped womb that’s accommodating and cleanly.
This is the graveyeard of your misadventure.
That port-swilling bastard of a paper-boy will be coming by soon,
So if you if you don’t happen to mind the briar patch, blonde on blonde…Could we fuck, please?
Let's spoil this pretty canvas.