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07
Jun

POEM: Hot City Part 4.0 (Heat Stroke for Anal Wedding)

HEAT STROKE FOR ANAL WEDDING

Our bodies are almost touching.
I’d marry you, she said, if you were in love with me.

But this is not happening yet.

+++++++++++++

Before I could go anywhere,
particularly the wedding,

a matter of individual choice, no an inevitable fact of life

no one has to get married

I had to put my play clothes somewhere. So
I put them in the hotel room of Proteus. But he’s going out
with one of his acolytes, I think to play miniature golf.

“It’s the thing to do”

some basic guidelines that make life easier for everyone

by taking the direct route yourself

you may wonder how you may best approach the lion’s den

a united front can work the miracle

lips trembling and voice quavering

a similar note of ill will

how he planned to make a living and support the wife

THE DREAM: The Queen of Microbiology and
Bill Cole are living in the same concrete bunker as I am.
In the middle of the night, she knocks gently on my door,
comes in, and silently, naturally climbs into bed with me.

She realized the truth was a weapon.

Cole is my friend, but I cannot resist her
Queen lips, I plummet into her Queen eyes, her Queen limbs envelop me.
Intimate saturations, warmth and comfort. I must, I  will, have her in every way.

Your revelation should not be an act of defiance

The very next morning at lunch, the Queen suddenly stands up.
Points her accusing finger at me, and in earshot of the cafeteria, yells at me.
INFIDELITY!  INFIDELITY!! INFIDELITY!
All the while, yelling while evaporating, while transparently fading into brick.
Proteus
knows what happened. I am afraid. Afraid. I am
afraid that Cole will be compromised.

There’s no need to refer constantly to your confession

her rambling stream of consciousness narrative

I have resolved not to tell him about the dream.

the atmosphere you wish to create

++++++++++++++

A baroque disaster.

A sunny sham crackle day. Relatively cracky and fucky true.
Dastardly gangly rectory via the chapel, sweating oak.
The ushers, black belted penguin flexed nursemaids,
escort all guests to their death seats, rattling, rattling, waddling, flapped.
A geological poop madonna screeches a high tone viper madrigal in the loft. Humans file
into predetermined slots, reflecting pink copper fleshy wedding coins.
Heads or tails, balls to ass, which sheer vixen do
you want to bust the most? Hold. The unbalanced, distraught, mother of the bride
is last to be seated. One moment please. The wastepaper bat ushers,
flap off to regroup in a cave corner. The signal that the ceremony is about to begin.

BONG! Proteus is late but prongs into place amongst the shingles.
Heavy battleship doors snail open, ominously to reveal the RED ANAL BRIDE,
who pauses at the threshold for a photo opportunity, and then,
clomps down the aisle in a furious flame of irritated space.

Aunt ANUS bites her lip at the sight of the red rashy ANAL BRIDE,
choking back anesthetic tears of apprehension and fear. There, there now, lady,
the little RED ANAL BRIDE you knew as a young girl is now a woman, a woman who
loves and licks and screams and kicks and opens wide, who wants to get
it in the ass, the RED ANAL BRIDE,
niece to your candycream.

Meanwhile, during the march, I’m looking out into the crowd, and ducks play trumpets,
and every woman in every pew becomes fair game for taste test. QUACK QUACK!!!

Then, without warning, I’m dramatically shifted to the Sun Bleach Moment:
Waking in the morning, groggy, and turning to my sleeping wife.
Nudging her awake. Making love to her in Sun Bleach,
she’s clinging to me, letting go. The tender sweat drying on her skin.
Salt. Bleach. Trembling, sold, we’re shining in the center of the suneye.

The moment that never occurs.

Suddenly, I shift back to the ceremony, and Proteus, giant man
standing at the hand of the groom grows 100 feet in to the air,
and looks down upon us like twisty gnats. He raises his hand
and glares at the couple. Proteus speaks. He lies about
the future, promising that the day will have the same glory, that
the landscape will remain essentially intact. Proteus knows the future
but he lies:

GUESTS AND LOVERS
ENCIRCLED BY SPECTRES
YOUR FUTURE IS IN ARMS
CREAKING IN ECSTASY
BUSTED IN FANTASY
YOUR WIFE IS A FRAGRANCE
THAT CONTRACT IS A BROKEN PIE
THERE’S NO LOVE IN THE SOFA BED
GRIT CAKES IN YOUR EYE
FREE VERSE BLADDER DEFECTION
GARTER BELT STRANGLING REFLECTION
EARRINGS DUG INTO SCABBY TRAILS
TIARA JAMMED IN YOUR PITTED RAILS
HAIRSPRAY CODING YOUR URETHRA TANK

THE THRESHOLD
THE THRESHOLD

Raise your swords, and host the parasite,
cut and/or fast forward to
THE RED ANAL BRIDE as she furiously shoves a candle up the ass of the
GARGASAN GROOM, corkscrew style, without jelly.

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

Ladies and gentlemen, ghosts and freaks, I now pronounce you
NO-HUMAN AND CORPSE-FLESH.

The moment their lips touch, their
tongues rotate, and time/space transcends light.

THERE SHE IS, MY HEADLESS BRIDE.
LOVELY TUN AWAITING RIDE
Rotating in bliss and fear,
orbiting in toss of cock and pies,
growing heads in lines, in lines,

A RED ANAL BRIDE

A HYDRA TRANSPORTER MACHINE

COMPRISED EQUAL PARTS
GOLD WOMAN, GOLD HEAD
CRASHING THROUGH STAINED
GLASS NIPPLE GODDESS
SQUIRTING ACID MILK
FLOOD FROM NECK
TEATS PAYNE ABORTION FLAME
HUMAN ROOM BIOTECH ALMONZO
JAMMING INFECTED NEEDLES
SCROTUM THE QUEEN
MICROBIOLOGY TEARING OFF EPIDERMIS
LARISSA CASTRATING GRANITE TEETH IN
PUSS JEAN MARIE BURNING
CIRCLES ONTO SOFTNESS RENAE RIPPING UP
ALL POEMS IN SHAFT OF SHAME
DOUGH GIRL ON TOP OF CHURCH, CRUSHING ROOF

BEAMS AND WINDOWS CRACK

The official ANAL photographer takes stills of me as I battle the hydra.
PAPER CUTS WITH PAGES, HOLES WITH GIN, SLITS WITH BUTTER
the pews are overthrown, a head is cut, two more take it’s place,

THE ALTAR SPLINTERS INTO FEED, THE FLOORBOARDS EXPLODE INTO PAPER GRASS

Why, look down, look down, there’s ink on my hands,
I’ve been theoretically disemboweled, dissected by
my own wordless terrorvision of the future. Paralyzed by abject projectors,
becoming the item that is most desired, eviscerated by happy teeth, an empty toy
thermos in a shimmering mystery oasis of sand, flesh, desire and
fluctuated promises. If there is a wife, she’s no longer here,
and, by the way, congratulations on getting married, you fucks;
enjoy the complementary mints, the guests are already dead.

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