She Farts

She farts Arcadian mists squared—
Her wrinkled ass an antique knowing no love in this lifetime,
Seducing Austin like a satanic snake
With thumb sucking hips writing code—
She loves him with her tipsy lost cherry,

Mesmerized by his calluses,
Mabel’s ghost haunts the disused rooms—
Betsey Johnson’s silver eyes
Sapphic dreams of the brown mother,
Until I find you I constantly walk backwards into the ocean—
Cocaine for the fat girl’s psychology,
Redheaded Libra mother’s dream detective,
Soul of a glorious whore’s blank pages

Barefoot, not a child with a penis
So close yet risen hypnotized—
Square gated back to the beginning,
Secretly a slut and almost famous in France—
You and Italy made of stone,
She anonymous and unknown,
The librarian’s bare feet and shiny red leather miniskirt

I search for her sunlit eyes, random love, time and insistence
She has cigarettes for eyes and farts Arcadian mist,
I don’t know why I gave up on love
And one-dimensional disillusionment
Filling twenty-four pages with an ode to an ugly girl
The real world is not a sexy place
Filled with mirrors
Brits love the queen but she only loves her dogs,
Tired of posing for Bunny Yeager,
Bettie Page retired,

Speculating on the Higgs Field made her choke on her own vomit,
Swallowing her tongue making her wet,
Was Emily Dickinson an epileptic?
Did she masturbate while her brother was banging Mabel in the next room?
Had she read Baudelaire,
The Marquis De Sade, Poe, Whitman and Rimbaud?
Did she smoke marijuana and snort cocaine—

Then what did she know of angels and infinity
And the troglodytes that once walked the earth
And the witch that once flew on brooms over Amherst—
And the Victorian whores that walked the streets
Farting Arcadian mists


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