Madonna emerges from the fiery flames of Cynthia’s thick, white ass—
Like a salamander slithering into existence from the ether,
Robert and Elizabeth visiting Emily’s grave
As she emerges draped in Francesca’s white shroud,
The dust from their fingers taken by the wind to Italy,
Cynthia, bolder, chucks her false teeth in the lake—
She was my lawyer but her finesse at fellatio was lacking,
She walked along the pier in Texas waiting for bus
To Mexico, alas, the women who walk in shadows have familiar faces,
Madonna’s skull filled with sea foam and the deep pink truth
Have Christ to thank for Pythagoras’s peaceful prayers,
As angels fly through the political pollution of the Vatican—
The Moroccan girl was sixteen she drank poison and died being dragged by the hair on her head through the dirty alley by the rapist she had been forced to marry
Their mothers sprinkled their confessions with brown sugar
And cinnamon until the truth made them vomit into Madonna’s mouth
Gaping with tongue aflame with Cynthia’s ring of roses—
Her stoner’s scent the gift of chocolate reminding her of youth,
No teacher ever left her grave so clean, I don’t think of her as Jewish,
Rain in the alley cleansing her, I don’t think of her as Spanish—
She recognizes my cock in the dark through the smoke
As I burn her worn out clothes like tomorrow’s sin,
Her geometry like time abused until it crawls and pees on all fours—
I search for the root and finding none keep searching in the dark
At the cool edge of the water her face a teenage moon can’t be stopped,
Her drunken eternity released like a cold fart—
The Ukrainian girl was eighteen when the sons of two well-connected officials drugged her and raped her and dousing her naked body with gasoline set her on fire
She gives gospel bj’s to the holy choir one by one
Sainted and delicious, her twin emerging like desire from the mind—
To Lina, my Rose La touché, I bequeath the empire of sand,
Her plastic heart a revelation, her tight black jeans naked salvation,
No virgins walk this earth and no atheist ever killed anyone
Because they disagreed with his opinion
And no religion says thou shalt not rape children—
The blonde bitch beside Cynthia in bed is unkind,
The windows dirty—
Making a woman orgasm, a work of art and a cat happy
Is both harder and easier than it looks,
Silence is the dream of John Ruskin and Gil Elvira—
Her thirty-year-old son fucked her while she was young
By decree of André Breton and the holy surrealists—
Her ass and mouth opening onto the same photogenic wormhole—
Madonna emerging from the fiery flames of Cynthia’s holy white ass
Thought the Vatican’s assassin that she met in the dark club was the uncle with whom she’d an incestuous affair with years ago but he wasn’t—
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Ted Frier
Robert Crook
Lauren J Barnhart
Steve Klingaman
Hayley Rose
Ingrid Ricks
Salon.com
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