A Mother’s Backside

Shawn mumbles in her sleep about cheerleaders and toilet slaves,
Fingering her wormhole at an ancient ambient wedding—
Edna in her seamed stockings disguised as a pinup,
Reciting short virgin prayers, her knickers down—
Exciting as ice cream when there is only one—
Shawn mumbles in her sleep fingering her wormhole—
A mother’s pussy is sweeter than ice cream,
And as exciting as ice cream, unforgettable as a perfect pearl
Her punctuated perspective, her ocean of body hair,
Her cat sculpted of erotic wood, her nurse’s degree,
My short radio fiction, Edna spanking Rabindraneth—
Lizzie and Marilyn walking in stilettos,
Her diamond encrusted bra straps,
Time traveling to the present January,
Ella eating out the blonde, not just any hippie
Her pearls glistening in the night, star struck in a world of wonder—
Showing herself to me and realizing my dreams in the vacuum of sleep
Her mother does yoga with an ass the size of a watermelon,
As delicious as spring breeze off the brown river
Of her European charm, her restroom orthodox,
Plastic Japanese women listening to the Beatles,
It’s no crime that she’s heir to a philosophy that’s cool and calm—
Cheerleaders and toilet slaves know there is only one Paradise
But many Hells, one for each eye, her soul’s twin, Diana and freedom—
If you take one teenaged girl you have to take them all, teenaged girls
Travel in sleeping swarms of Realism,
Old tongues aligned with their assholes
Barbie’s Jewish roots wasted in Japan—
Swedish grandmothers weekend housewives—
Tender Victorian feet of tomorrow think before they speak instinctively,
The math subconscious, his ugly Lebanese sister’s boat my salvation—
Ironically Minimalism proves impractical in a Baroque Age—
We must choose our blue angels miraculously,
Gorgeous Russian whores in the underground—
Skinny blonde redneck turned urban hipster,
not just any blonde or infantile Japanese women, a hooker’s familiar face
Russian rock and roll lover inevitably naked and insane,
Russian girls tasting like apples,
Edna and Shawn partying on the beach with an Israeli girl
Ella showing the Japanese girl to the toilet dreaming of crows,
Painting her four walls, sodomy’s sister strangled with her own pantyhose
On film her deepest thoughts spring to hellish life,
At the last minute she runs in and blows me a Cinderella kiss—
I live in the two worlds of her heart’s unknown origin,
Her secret gray mansion an Indian Jewish mother I know well,
His ugly Lebanese sister’s boat my salvation—
On that fine day when I kissed you I felt ten feet tall
But then I couldn’t fit through the door
So I’m going to kiss you again so I can feel small enough
To walk in and kiss you again
And burst through the ceiling like a jet
Through the atmosphere and once in the sky
I’ll write your name in letters ten feet high—
Just to tell you I don’t think I could live another day
Without you and yet it’s another day—
Where have I been in hell with Orpheus
And Satan’s handmaid, but I want to get back to that airplane
With you in my arms soaring on a trip around the sun—
Dedalus has got nothing on me,
Apollo knows that all I want is the Delphic oracle
To say that you will have me in your bed
And for God the Father to give me your hand to wed—
I’m feeling lucky and I don’t even know why,
Could it because I just saw a ghost dancing around the room
But that comes as no surprise any day and any time—
The poet prays to Euclid’s golden cube,
Silver and magnetic, the mother of all elements
Spits them from her sphincter like her mother before her—
The minimalist chaos, complexity the future of our rhythms and reflections—
Petite mother of misty, golden gasses
Glassed in into a baroque dialogue,
Moliere mystified, simple Byzantine flesh,
Botticelli and all things that start as ideas,
Art starts with things and turns them into ideas,
Stripping the flesh from her back,
Her mystical heritage seeing the world from inside out, a western missionary,
Smoking the dope from a mother’s ass,
My mother slippery genius, no useless thing
Barbara’s ass smells like musty pantyhose—
From arte povera to minimalism,
I would make love to her for money, a lot of money,
Her spindly southern feet in bare in strappy flats—
Minimal is not simpletumblr_mczb6v9hJP1rejj40o1_1280 tumblr_mff20g453N1rdmmpbo1_500

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