Susan Za In The City Of Sodom

Without God existence wouldn’t exist, Without Existence God wouldn’t be God—
Lot’s wife turned to rock salt surrounded by angels,
Lot lied when he said his daughters were virgins—
The angels weren’t gay but they’d been to all the nightclubs
In a town with teenage girls standing on the corner
And took on all comers faster than Einstein predicted,
The Russian girl waking in the basement,
Her mother licking history’s toilet where Pink Floyd played
On the radio and we ran down to the beach—
Love coming in many colors but the sky doesn’t count them
Teenage girls drinking vodka just like their mothers,
And the strippers running out to the desert when the city catches fire—
What she doesn’t know a transgender will tell her,
The Old Testament getting old and the prophets liars—
She calls herself an atheist but she’s a Christian,
The kind of girl I could love on an alley floor just after the flood,
Talk about Israel and bourbon in a single breath,
Loving every Jew and cat as if they were the first—
You can’t stop the atomic bomb when you already have one—
Her tattoo is as large as the whole world
But her mouth is small as an atom; contemporary art is too busy,
I can’t even look at it though I want to visit Miami—
Where Cubans flee Castro by standing still
And four-legged angels walk the hot streets
And painters and prostitutes can’t tell on another apart—
Lot’s wife was a cannibal that ate her own heart
In some of the finest restaurants the city of Sodom—
Where poets sat at café tables with nothing to say—
Where the East Village meets Chelsea with British accents,
Where she acts like a whore and gets treated like a star,
What looks like Pop Art is just a rehash of Fauvism—
But at bottom paint is just paint so paint like a poet,
And writing is just writing so write like a painter—
She’s made of wood and pees on the floor
A photocopy in a bad wig wither cunt showing,
The angel who lives here has something to tell you,
The Japanese girl jumped out of the window—
The dog barks but doesn’t bit e as he showers you with kisses,
Infinity smiles like sunlight in the cold wind of adultery
And blonde models in bondage thrive in Australia,
My computer is slow and my girlfriend is ugly but that’s all right,
Sodom burned to the ground and the sand is still blazing,
Her children in flames counting their money in luxury condos—
As terraces overlook the city crumble around Sasha Grey,
Her wonderful ass nothing like anything in the Bible—
Her artless witchcraft pinups portray the world as a ballerina
And Lot’s wife doesn’t know it but every mad man has seen her naked her world is history and the missiles are flying—
Japan has no face and the prostitute is a liar,
I fucked a three-breasted mannequin with two heads
In the city of Sodom and walked away clean with my guilt in tact
And what are the chances I’ll ever go back with my time machine broken and her fourth heart attack, her big ass may have been glamorous then painted with lipstick but not anymore—
Drunk and bloody and knocked out cold, sweet and bisexual
Welcome to the city of the manufactured Id
Where a fat ghost walk the bare streets without watches—
Ellie cuts herself to the rhythm of her mother’s masturbation,
Concealing the scars beneath tattoos—
Mom is a Japanese-Philippine drone drunk on mead
And throwing up in the bathtub—
Her painted stairwell covered with mice, she’s small and naked
The ghosts returned after the flood senile and singing,
Where Ellie vomits and pees until she’s dehydrated—
Bending over skinny girls that lay prostrate spread-eagle on the mattress, peeing on the waiting ugly girls whose wet bodies have the earthy aroma of Japanese gunpowder, Magritte stabbing their blue eyes out to silence the clock—
She returns home to her sister and mother, her little sister made of iron and her brother made of burnt firewood—
Pouring glue on her face lit by sparks,
Don’t say you saw her; her English isn’t very good—
Saturn’s sister kissing infinity on the lips,
Her golden skull filled like a bucket of mud in a dream and I know why Heraclites loaned a slave to Pythagoras but after Pythagoras fucked her Heraclites wanted his slave back, never a virgin she was in harm’s way he climbed the mountain looking for wild opium to chew, his mind on fire like St. Anthony’s—
We walk back to the city of light machines and smooth surfaces
And the smooth surfaces of mothers’ and the pumpkin-bellied girls
On their backs in the dirt,
I can see Thailand when I stretch her sphincter with my fingers—
I blend paint until it’s little more than brownish grey
I search the stars for the Devil in her ugly face—
I made Lucy eat her own shit faster than she could shit it,
I sold her mother to the Greeks and bought a black camel—
I marched with Sun Tzu across the pages of history
And the Italian sun blinded her ancestors’ armies,
Her head split open releasing angels that flew off to Heaven never returning—
Ellie choked on the pages of The Bible as she ate them,
As she prayed with her eyes closed for an ocean to drown in
But the ocean was bare and there was no cave to hide in
So she drew her diagrams on the stonewalls and let perverts take pictures and the manufactured libido worked like a cash machine—
Her pussy split open and she gave birth to her mother
And the ghosts walked the streets their lips puckered like Isis,
Thirsty for a drink, she isn’t forcing or faking her orgasms anymore—
Her mother taught her well how to frig with one finger
And with the other nine fingers to count the stars—
Welcome to the world of the manufactured head,
We are all of one mind and nothing is hidden—
Lot’s wife turned to the angels and laughed,
Showing her thighs to the crown prince,
Her soul escaping through her skull made me shiver—
Her daughters were not virgins; there were never any virgins,
There were B-girls with dreamy ass and blowjobs in public restrooms, there were days when blondes drank too much wine
And she always looked good for a whore in 3D from birth—
The angels will come again in stockings and stilettos
And we will let them conquer the city of Sodom once again,
Raising its’ ghost up from the desert and burying it in the hot breeze like California where Lot went for vacation and met a hot brunette—
Who told him she was underage but he didn’t care,
She was an Asian cheerleader and that was all that mattered
“One” is the question for which the answer is always “Yes”—
What do churches do when the lights go out
And Jesus hides his face from the devil’s madness
And soap operas are memories and he’s in his mother’s arms,
Do we know what the shadows do when we’re not looking,
When the human race is struck blind by war and peace—
Her sky-blue eyes are as old and dusty as the moon—
Her soul is nonexistent and psychotic—
I saw her standing in the window taking her bra off,
She was beautiful as an endless sea of lesbians,
The numbers add up to zero, twisted gracefully—
When she speaks it’s like a voice at an séance,
Silence that rings for eternity, only her god knows she lied—
Her eyes water but her tears are not Jewish or European at all,
I don’t think she knows her body is covered with Morse code—
I don’t think Freud slipped her his penis, her face going out like a light her eyes a hutch filled with newborn hares and Egyptian graffiti, my genie climbed out of the bottle at seventeen,
Your window a sonnet I mercifully sing, an ode to robotic slags
As I sweat under the weight of lesbian kisses—
The devil pours blue paint all over her floor,
Her eyes drink sand, her skinny arms carrying buckets,
The news is never pretty; babies are born with two heads,
We see things that aren’t there and don’t see things that are,
Her blonde heads comes flying out the window,
Sometimes we fall in love and things get hard or easy—
Sometimes we close our eyes and men wearing hats appear
And women in fishnets add up the numbers to infinity—
Sometimes the lights go out and she kisses me—
The joke three-dollar bill getting passed around the strip club
Gets taken home by the two-dollar whore who thinks she’s on a date with Jesus the churchgoers magically dream of marriage,
The philosophy of reason shouts from the rooftops,
The waitresses at the local diner looking like movie stars,
The gyaru fashion model is the most beautiful wreck
Who wants to eat eyes and her mother’s ass out like I do—
A girl with tits I can only see in the dark is my lover,
Her stoned madness making her mind wander,
What do churches do when the lights go out
And the Devil goes dancing where the pole dancers
Rent their clothes and paint their skulls gold—
The infinite kiss of ten o’clock is bearded and wears glasses
Night wearing the gold ring of burlesque and Jesus hides his face
In his hands too drunk to think and soap operas are memories
And he’s in his mother’s arms and she in his—
At the moment of the infinite kiss when the human race
Is struck blind and the sun refuses to shine—
Walking down a busy urban street at night just after dusk,
I pass a small storefront gallery hung with minimalist mixed-media paintings, a Chinese man is just closing up so I step into the doorway and introduce myself—
He is friendly and I start a conversation with him,
Saying I like his paintings and asking if they are his work
He says yes but his English is broken and I can hardly understand him but I ask if it would be all right if I brought some of mine to show him and maybe hang some in his gallery,
He says all right but then I notice right behind him behind glass partition doors is a beautiful, naked Chinese girl slowly rotating
Showing off her naked body, her breasts small and firm
And I see the wall opposite to her is a mirror
Her small ass is flat and beautiful proportioned
I ask the man is name. He replies, “Za Wing Ma”—
I tell him I don’t understand Chinese
And he lets me into the back room where the girl is—
I say, “My mother, no, grandmother is half-Chinese, but,”
She completes my sentence in perfect English.
“But you never picked up the language,” she says.
She and he both point to his name in graffiti on the wall. WINGMA ZA, I repeat the name aloud,
Getting it now and ask her what her name is.
“Susan,” she replies. “Susan Za,” I ask and she says yes
And I say I’m glad to meet them both and leave the gallery feeling overjoyed and wake up thinking it was the most wonderful dream I ever had and that if a poet isn’t mad his words are meaningless

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