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POEM: The Goddess Letters (Part 4) by CW Cobalt


.31 ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

you quiver nervously, the match wavers in your hand, the flame on it’s tip pathetic. That narrow cigarette protrudes extra long from your skull. Your lack of lips envelops your head in an ominous cirrus cloud. You experience a hacking fit during which your skin tears off your skeleton & you spit out pieces of your pancreas.

You look silly.

.32 ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

you are alone in a car, traveling.

.33 ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

You told me the massage felt like a breast exam.
Perhaps. You asked me to check for tumors.

I felt only follicles, ducts.

You are not to perish, nor lose any body parts.


.34 ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

At the time of the false moon, what obsessed me was the appearance that you were from the silent film “Broken Blossoms”. Serving coffee.

Later, during that phase, I was the savage while your nipple sprang out of your bikini. Serving humans.

You changed in front of me, & I didn’t care to look.

Metamorphosis over 365 days.

Sincerely, MAX

.35 ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Ix Chel,
thanks for sending me the photocopy of that manual that teaches how to give a woman an orgasm.

Ye bust out, she has to desire the shake. Strike that, Chel, she has to be open to invasion. Her titular soul open to the strange clang of Sal’s guitar. Disenfranchised in space, disinfected in baggage.

So many event horizons, so few spasms.

Hey, are you paying attention?

.36 ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

above all women who walk the studio, my thoughts always return to you. Not your image, but a whole. Not fragments.

The light from our sun is numb, almost too bright.

The summer reveries just beginning.

Tonight, a Shakespearian Actor meets a woman. He later will report: “When I first saw her, I knew. This is the woman I will marry.”

We’ll find out by the end of the season.

I can’t play basketball for shit.

Yours, MAX

.37 ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Borne on a corrugated cardboard crotch shell, you sail in on the tide, cigarette firmly clutched in mouth.

Naked, vulgar, voluptuous Betty Boop on a surfboard shell, overwhelm me in waves of iridescent orange, pink, & green. Envelop me in flesh, absorb me, sponge woman, sweet anemone. Take a puff, breathe, wash into the dunes, kiss me.

No, wait, you’re 2000 miles west.

Bye now,

.38 ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Unfortunately that man cannot commit to an imperfect image.


.39 ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Your arms flail, lanky long blades, whirling through the air.

Like Daryl Hannah towards the end of “Blade Runner”; doing tumblesaults towards Harrison Ford clutching his head between hedgeclipper thighs.

She spins around the room, but he recovers, pulls out his gun and blasts away at her, the bullets spattering blood all over the walls as she flails like crazy.


You have never flailed in my presence.

.40 ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Man, Sal was trying to write this song for the Teeth, when your tender tap at the door interrupted the second verse. He told me about it.

“Sheeet, that woman came in between riffs & unzipped my britches! Holy ! Like some kinda hoe-down vampire, she kneeled on my distortion pedals & drained the lifeforce outta me with her mouth. When she finished, she wiped her lip, and flung herself out the window, & I crawled behind my amp and slept for 2 days!!”

I saw you salivating by the salad bar later that night.

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