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07
Jun

POEM: Hot City Part 3.0 (Hot City Hangover)

3.1
DECONTAMINATION

ENTRY:  Train Station in Hot City, en route to the Hot Zone.
PERSONEL: Bill Cole.The Queen of Microbiology.

At one minute past noon, I am snapping through a
morass of faces in search of my contact.

Cole! Cole!

This station is a zoo covered in dust, with millions of teeming microbes.

Cole!

There is his head, bobbing amid the limbs.

Hey Cole! Am I late, shaking his hand. How
long have you been waiting. O, says Cole, we just
got off the train.

The Queen of Microbiology.  Her hair is
ultra black natural, unstarry black sky, bereft of light black,
darker than pavement.  Her eyes are blue sky burst of marble,
blinking in tender array, glass and sparkled. Her skin, pale, pink,
curved in autoerotic waves of drill.
My clutch urges me to tear off her clothes here in station.
Her nipples, Invisible to the naked eye, incubate dormant beneath her shirt.

I had a dismantling dream about her last week,
which I will describe later.
Cobalt! She says and kisses me joyfully on the cheek.

Ahhhh, I quiver; my blood boils tea-like with infection of bliss.

—-> Down a staircase, we board an upward train to the heart of Hot City.
Bags, vials, tubes, and gear in hands.
The station is clogged with bodies, and sticky with puddles of pain.
And so too, my scrotum. My underwear compresses my sweaty sack,
as trains harbor boxcars of twitching passengers.
The Queen’s bra anchors her breasts while I
hold my breath in anticipation of dream moments that will never occur.
The speckled inside of her underarm , the heated
basilica of her crotch,  the sour odor of bakery confections in time of famine.

Ah, but she’s with Bill. Better move on. THE MISSION TO HOT CITY.

The train bounces on minute bends of imperfect tracks and ever
so slightly, so too do the bangles of the Queen,
shifting just so many micro-millimeters beneath the soft
hull of her shirt. Those tits are there, ripe for tongue and tangy for asking.

And if my face were buried in the fluff of her steam right now, I could nose
the sweet foam of lust infection.

We’re going in. I survey the train quickly to check the angle of eyes.

No one is looking at my hat this time.

Too bad, anyway, I have no place to put it but on my head.

3.2
NUTRIENTS

Debarking from the Train Platform,
Biotech Almonzo immediately makes a comment regarding
the hat from Zaire, but really
has no deep financial or psychological problem with it. Her bulby
breasts are copious, even more so than the Queen’s,
and the mustache she sports is angry.  Almonzo’s furious
eyebrows knit owls beneath her thick contamination goggles.
Her airplane pilot,  ulltra-Astronaut protection radiation goggles too big for her face.
The whites of her eyes bulge into the plastic lenses, with
teeny spot irises dialating in plastic pace.
Blinking Bubble eyes. Biotech Almonzo’s teeny mouth invites gum and smacking.
Her decontamination suit has a massive backpack attached to her neck
which swings wildly as she gesticulates, rattling as she walks.
And her wheezing whistle voice whines when she talks.

She too, kisses me on the cheek, but this time, there is a tremor of trepidation,
a chilling of the blood cells, a pair of lips distant yet nearly toasted.

The three of us travelers, greasy from the heat, and Biotech Almonzo
now fully copulated in decontamination gear decided to get some
Pizza, since Cole refuses taco satisfaction.

Despite pariah status with the suits, the waiter is exceedingly polite.
No one is staring at my hat.

As the food is presented to us on metal dias, I find myself asking:
Do the women here taste like the pizza?

Let’s extend the metaphor here a little so you can see what I mean.
The knife cutting into the pizza, slicing it neatly into segments,
is my sharpened, isolated cock plunging deeply into the women here.

YAAAAAAAAA!!!

Biotech Almonzo does not attract me at all, yet I’ll still plunge inside.

YAAAAAAAAAA!!!!

SMACK!!

I’ve fucked her, I’ve used her, I’ve plundered her canal.
The dinner parade continues into the main intercourse as
I cut into the Queen of Microbiology.
Her sloppy cheeseskin slides off the pizza. And I’m lapping up
pussified tomato sauce on moist crust, onion strings streaming down out of
my lapping jaws, greasing up my chin.
Hold on to your pepperoni and sauce! Fresh from the oven!
Latch onto that slipping cheese – it detaches and slides so easily when steaming hot.

Her tits are pineapple and ham, milk squirting slappy happy pizza sauce.

YAAAAAAAAA!!!

Careful not to burn the tongue,
the tongue extending 12 inches deep the pizza

box.

Pepperoni pussy taste spicy and fresh.

Wait. I don’t like that line.

3.3
EVENING

Everyone wants to get drunk. Just a beer will do me fine.

I’ve got to call Hester Payne. She

lives in Hot City. Damn, I’m so fucking greasy.

Give me another beer. They are very amused.

I tell them the story about the guy who shits out his mouth.

They don’t make asses like that anymore.

You ought to get out more says that chick in the back.

Gimme another beer. Where do I sleep? The closet?

My sweet stars and garters, it’s off to the lounge.

You’re crazy sleeping in here. God.

The Queen appears for a moment, then vanishes.

Old Bill Cole is already gone.

3.4
HOT CITY

An immense globe of hot, slowly rotating gas —->
the atmosphere in the thick murk of this terrible lounge.
I’m going to have to try to sleep here on my bag.
Biotech Almonzo was going elsewhere to sleep, but
she changed her mind at the last moment. So I’m doomed.

Alternatively, the central regions of the solar system
may have been too hot for the terrestrial planetisimals
to accumulate the lighter elements. But here
I am draining massive gallons of sweatwaste out my anus,
in a slow and painful trickle.

This infirmary is hideous. The colors of the furniture are
garish green and orange, and their fabric is abrasive polyester.

I can’t sleep. Where’s my pen?

RENAE, I’M WRITING TO YOU
WEEKS AFTER THE FACT
THE FACT, AS IF IT WAS A REVELATION,
I HAVE NO PLACE TO SLEEP BUT THE COUCH IN AN INFIRMARY.
SCRATCH THAT, NO BED.
TO SLEEP I WILL MAKE MYSELF AT HOME
ON POLYESTER

SLEEP
ALTHOUGH THIS IS DURING
THIS IS DURING THE EXPERIENCE
IT IS WEEKS
AFTER

A COUPLE WAS IN HERE EARLIER AND
I’M NOT GOING TO TELL YOU
OH COME ON TELL ME
WOULD YOU PLEASE GET ME A COMFORTER?
I PUT ON MY HAT.

MELTING.

THE HOTTEST HEAT I’VE FELT SINCE…
THE HOTTEST HEAT

WE’VE BEEN FRATERNIZING ALL DAY, NOT
PHYSICAL, SWEATING.
I WANT TO PAINT OR DRAW OR
MAKE YOU SOMETHING
BUT I CAN’T.

RENAE,
I WANT TO SPEAK TO YOU.
MY EYEBALLS ARE FALLING OUT,
I WANT TO SAY THAT THE TRAIN
ON THE TRACK,

AND THIS IS A TERRIBLE TRACK,
FULL OF DANGEROUS TWISTY TRACK

ANOTHER SATURDAY NIGHT AND I
AIN’T GOT NOBODY,

BUT IT’S MONDAY, I’M STRANDED
SWEATING IN THIS LOUNGE. THOUGH–
I SAY I’M BEAT – I HAVE NO PLACE
TO LIE MY HEAD,
THERE ARE COORDINATES
ON WHICH I WOULD NOT BE CLUBBED.
HIT, SMACKED – MOVED FROM
THE RESPITE
RUN PAST THE POLES WHILE YOU CAN.
NOTHING I CAN DO TO STOP IT.
NOTHING
BUT THROW DARTS —->

I barely sleep at all. My eyelids are axes.
Barely sleeping an hour, I awake at sunrise.
I am dehydrated and have the shits. I am tortured. I
Call to Proteus. What is the future? Why am I  weakened
in this hideous room? The water from the sink is warm.
There
is no refreshment. I have no money and no food. Proteus, help me.
The cleaning woman comes in and empties the trash.
Otherwise silence. I am in the heart of the sun.

Proteus! Answer me!

The cleaning woman moves the furniture back.


3.5
AFTERMATH

I would that Tom Sawyer were dead. And
Becky Thatcher. I don’t know the difference.

The burning sun has evaporated the infection.
Hester Payne, freshly cleaned and cured, arrived
via sunspot eclipse patrol and removed me from the heart
of the Hot zone.

Now, I’m back in her quarters, and all I can feel is the cascade of water droplets,
a disinfectant of angry bacterial reticence.

Hester Payne sits knitting in the living room
bereft of her pain and quandary, a solved
puzzle of reconstituted human life.
Tangled bulls, my balls crack against my legs and
water lids drop forward in speed.

Veins pop out on my arms and my head wants to crack.
Kiss me or look at my nuts, hold me
or drown me in the hair of the drain.

This dropped bar of soap:  a salty fetus, disintegrating.


3.6
POTENTIAL

I was going to put a long section here
about another woman I visited in Hot City. But I

am going to save it for another poem, where
I can properly expand on things, in a different context.

 

3.7
FAREWELL ADDRESS

O funny denizens of Hot City,
do you associate the color red with heat?

Hot City: a scrambled and regurgitated set of alphabet crap.
Language: merely a convention, a placebo for the real.

There’s no cure for the malady affecting this plan,
only a substitute byproduct constructed in time and blood.

Every word that fails to communicate is yet another missing
undetermined, dislocated, cryptographic corpse.

If you look straight into the sun, maybe you can
see your own embryo. But to see it clearly, you’d have to burn out
all your optical nerves.

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