Suckling The Tiger’s Teat I Prophesy

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The gaunt faces of Indian grannies tell stories of nasty whores
Crushed between two big assed African girls,
Their stick houses crashing down around the Crusaders—
Her face hurting from wedging her tongue so far up mother’s ass
British eyes eating like starving bare feet blindly
Running through desert the corridor of the sun—
The round faces of geometric grannies telling nasty Indian whore stories—
Crushed between two big African girls, stick houses crashing down on the Crusaders
Her dream-eyes filming flat on her back and nervous—
Suckling the tiger’s teat, a mother and daughter that could be twins—
Models wearing tweed dresses with matching short jackets,
In American Vogue on August 15, 1954,
Bettie, Rothko, and me reading aloud
From Job’s laptop to a deaf tiger, she gnashing her dialectical teeth—
The blonde in boxer shorts losses her 3rd eye,
False teeth and Russian accent in the Crimea—
Yesterday, today and tomorrow—
Headless women’s souls forgotten yet sanctified,
A mother to us all to prove Evolution
You’d have to go back in time and find the first slut
That ever crawled from the sea starving, hysterical and naked—
Her tits like sweat soaked mountains
As she shits into the mouth of an ugly girl
As if she were shitting into a pot of gold—
If she were my granny I’d suck her tits all night
Mother-like sister and sister-like daughter
Speaking in squares and cubes over Archimedes’
Her mother’s ass yours like sweet Sonia of the rock,
Too often your wife has been seen out after dark,
Arab girls in school thwarted by butchers.
Press freedom in Bangladesh underground
Like the comic book lives of the Sainted Virgins—
1,000 Mothers dreaming of their mirrors reflections—
British eyes eating their ass like starving bare feet blindly
Running through the desert corridors of the sun—
The round faces of grannies telling stories of nasty Indian whores
Crushed between two big African girls,
Stick houses crashing down on the Crusaders—
Her face hurting from wedging her tongue so far up her mother’s ass
Suckling the tiger’s teat a mother and married daughter that could be twins—
Yesterday, today and tomorrow—
The geometric yellow faces telling stories of nasty Indian whores
The wives of Satan’s bloated purple tongues,
Their fish eyes gouged out by naked frog-faced demons
Johnny Gutai ran away from his grandmother’s in the light of the full yellow moon
Leaving his gyaru girlfriend passed out on the floor—
A slut so black with a heart as cold as stone
Yet her asshole smelled like cinnamon,
She’d jump through hoops for Johnny,
Fuck his friends and set herself on fire—
She’d drink piss and vomit in public places
And always had a smile for his grandmother,
Her love was like something from a black and white movie,
The inside of her cunt burnt with cigarettes—
Johnny used to tell her he loved her then cut her cheek with broken glass,
When she cried he’d suffocate her with a pillowcase
While he laughed and drank cold beer
She was the perfect woman with golden teeth
Who knew all of Shakespeare’s words by heart,
Her father was a successful banker, Yoko Ono her role model—
Johnny was going to be a Gutai star
And make paintings from her flesh,
she dyed her hair blonde for him and learned to walk like Jean Harlow—
But he fucked her head so hard she went deaf and crazy
And couldn’t tell her face from the mirror’s reflection—
Somewhere a cat cried for milk and her once lovely eyes
Were bloodshot from the strain,
The full moon was the queen of the night,
Grandmother drunk facedown on the mat—
This was Johnny’s chance and he sucked her hairy asshole all night,
Not all night because she woke up and rolled over
And wanted to get fingered without really waking up
And she dreamed that it was Johnny who died on a Kamikaze mission
Against the Americans in the pacific
But it was the North Korean boy she loved
Who brought her home and shared her body with his father—
His mother drunk, a whore and a slut who gave her pussy away
To anyone for the mere asking while he painted poison portraits
Of Golden Age Hollywood stars with tar on canvas
And showed them at the Modern Art museum
Where a faggot was in love with him—
Johnny Gutai was a pornographic hero
Who fucked his grandmother and beat his girlfriend bloody,
Who ran off, got married and changed his name—
He never wanted to go back in time,
Wanting to stay in the future where all was fine
Until he had a daughter who had golden eyes
And his wife committed ritual suicide—
And his grandmother came to live with them, her pussy sporting a bright yellow bush
In a shit-covered stall in a bathroom in the bowels of New York,
A queer smiles through the blood and broken teeth thankful for the fix—
As she sucked some Arab reading, cursing the New York Times,
On her knees in fishnets in November, cold as hell inside and out,

An Australian girl got drunk with me
And now she’s having my baby,
In a philosophical smack-down between Ayn Rand and the Marquis de Sade
Ayn Rand would take down Sade hard and he’d love it, winning by TKO—
Then she’d suck his precious perfumed prick
Like a good Russian bourgeois—
Pleading with her French lover to come hotly in her mouth,
In her mind she pretends to be the Greek Cleopatra
Sucking the cocks of Midnight stalking albino cowboys
Who tell her they’re gay but it doesn’t matter, holding hands in love in the dark—
Using his tee shirt to swab the sweat from her Holy orthodox backside
He sodomizes her roughly until her anus bleeds,

Calling her a man repeatedly until she believes him,
And she feels a rush through her veins like chlorine through chocolate—
I thought the city was on fire but it was just a man in the street lighting matches
She attended Yavneh of Telshe Yeshivah and became a geisha in the heart of Tokyo
Lusting after Jesus she wears stockings in the garden,
Her flesh smooth as the Queen of Sheba’s divine breast milk—
Cell 16 won’t show their tits while being in vitro fertilized by their dads—
Fathers and sons setting themselves on fire like the Buddha foretold,
No celibacy, no lesbians, no digital photography,
But she fucks horses, Judy O’Day crawling to the door

Love to a teenager is but a dialectical tool,
The geisha’s leash turning to wet cabbage,
Her mother getting shoved under a moving freight train—
Spraying her open mouth with pesticides,
Jessie watching television all night long, “Number 12 Looks Just Like You”
I prayed to the Lord that your mother would let me come in her mouth
After fucking her throat and the Lord answered my prayer

There were seven teenagers in the alley one talking like Noam Chomsky—
As brunette as Stella Adler, Tuesday Weld wasn’t in the Godfather
Because she was on the other side of the world
Stretching her labia open with sticky fingers—
Eaten out by a geisha girl that could pass for a Latina
She’d be a witch if she were in Angola or Salem back in the day—
Her blonde whore slut mother gang raped by cobras—
The greatest naked woman who ever breathed walks hand in hand with Jesus
The drunken Gnostic poet, glowing like Ginger Rogers—
The British grandmother having to choose between pantyhose or fishnets,
With an ass like a concept album, kissing an old man in the park,
Smelling the fat girl’s nipple sweat from across the field—
Perfection ending in nothingness—

But who can resist a European accent that thick,
Sweaty toes dancing on my tongue,
Must I fuck you without syntax in your blue dress and fur—
No one wanting to go to heaven alone,
Take your Chinese wife made of gold—

The News comes on in a minute,
God’s shining face repeating the Ten Commandments
In fluent Aramaic and her eyes bursting like rotten eggs,
She’s fond of laughing in the dark—
And I’ve never met a whore that I couldn’t live without
But the stars are eternal and the camera never stops—

The mother of all wormholes,
Socrates trying to argue with a child
On the streets of Pyongyang but only gets arrested when she smiles
And confesses to her Canadian soul
I’m wishing and praying, hoping and trying,
Her ass is bleeding but the BBC won’t announce it—

She walking in smoking, laughing,
Poetry like a puzzle,
Republican as Plato walking the yard—
He gets his point across with paint
And the millions are still rolling in,
Elise’s face is like the shining sun but she’s no Bettie

Jack the shaman cries out at the foot of the totem
And she appeared in a ring of miracles
I’ve loved more than one ugly woman,
They couldn’t choose their faces—
If only I knew then I could flip them on their bellies
And fuck their ass joyfully,
I might still be in love to this day but most likely not
She’s crying out to space and the ghost of Jackson Pollack walks in
Drunk as usual, if only we were together and you didn’t have cum on your face
De Kooning’s wife gave him a bad name and Pollack took the prize—
Don’t be afraid of the past, Krakatoa, the Titanic, or the World Trade Center
The poets will protect you from the night and the rain,
Quetzalcoatl chasing after the sun with a rainbow in both fists,
Your baby’s face smiling at you, the entire solar system spinning,
The Lost Generation was found in the street by the Beats
Who ran straight into their dealer’s arms—
Her cartoon machine-gun laughter like Chicago’s south Side,
Like Boston during a Marathon exploding and imploding,
Running faster and faster;
TS Eliot was like a god to a certain generation, not this one—
Prayers and explosions in Texas—celebrity hoes knocking at the door
Like zombies on a rampage—Rod Serling traveled back in time to Warsaw—
Mormon prophets hook up with Muslim prostitutes,
Hot stones and flames—
Hispanic housewife washing dishes while calculating her autobiography,
Religion only makes sense if there is no God, because if there is a God,
Face it we’re screwed—
I am that I am, in the world today we live looking backwards,
It’s like living at the bottom of a grave—
Your generation is an illusion, one created over and over
Her dream of being a movie star was realized 81/2 years ago—
Eve in the garden of skulls, hairy as hell, waging war over tea
Bondage queen or gift from god, throwing up in her face,
A rarely seen soul steals through the room, out the window and over the bridge
This blonde, not every mother is the mother of us all,
So cold she begs for dreams—
Alysha appears in the night smoky like love, abandoned automatically,
Mother sleeps with her eyes open because she’s so perfect,
She can even think with the window open—
GOOGLE plugs us all into eternity, her bared teeth like British razors squared—
Not content with the Protestant Bible Pound advocated Cubism
And gave it to the Chinese sky—
Do not be afraid of history, it is not the past,
Only ghosts roaming through your living room
In disheveled clothes like mock soldiers or digital burlesque saints
Alysha in her tattoos is not as beautiful as an ugly mother throwing up
From choking on cock—
Nothing could ever be so wonderful,
As your baby’s face smiling at you as she tries on her new leopard print bra
With matching panties—
No more gun deals for the tribes of Israel, no more living in the past
Don’t be afraid of the future, the senile brain prophesying
Penelope’s return in her dark cloak, her fat ass more desirable than ever—
Her thong of beetles and her paper face can’t do us any harm,
As long as her robot-clone kisses the Pope’s diamond ring—
Quetzalcoatl chasing him with a rainbow, Cthulu swallowing the earth whole— He couldn’t stop the visions that eventually became waking nightmares…
He would dream of sniffing the soiled crotch of her pantyhose
While sucking her toes and licking her feet, he saw no way of staying alive
Except by becoming a poet and a painter and told no one he was a prophet—
She became a go-go dancer at a sleazy club because they had to eat—
For him art and literature were everything,
It seemed every woman was a go-go dancer and every man a painter…
He still had visions, has them to this day…
He will never stop being a prophet
He was born that way, his path set clearly before him,
Past and future foretold—
And all the while you’re saying, what does any of this have to do with me or my mother or quantum mechanics or Cubism or Adolf Hitler and the Third Reich…
Those things were already in the past, like comic books, except horror comics,
The lost generation, the Algonquin circle, social realism or any kind of realism—
A prophet was born in 1961 in Harlem not of his own choosing
His best friends were drunks, junkies, thieves, poets, painters and sluts
And his visions were relentless
Dizzy Gillespie and Charlie Parker and John Coltrane
And Miles Davis created bebop…
There was Tempest storm and Blaze Starr
And the thousand other burlesque queens including Gypsy Rose Lee,
The greatest of them all and into this maelstrom of bebop, Beat literature, method acting, burlesque, abstract expressionist painting throw Playboy magazine and Bob Dylan,
Sylvia Plath, Ann Sexton and the Confessional Poetry movement,
Feminism and the Civil Rights and Black Power movements,
Gay rights, the Stonewall riots, Times Square,
Pornography, drugs, prostitutes and perverts
Jack Kerouac and Bettie Page were both Christians,
He a Roman Catholic and she an evangelical…
Pollack was a drunk in Jungian analysis married to a Jew,
Kerouac and Pollack looked lovingly upon Bettie Page’s figure,
Naked, near naked, bound and gagged, binding and gagging,
Hanging, hogtied in stockings and garters and high-high heels
Or babydolls and slippers lounging on a daybed
Or playfully posing in a field amidst an ocean of pinups
On a newsstand where she was featured in every magazine most often smiling…
Kerouac and Pollack both listened to bebop jazz,
The revitalized urban strain of jazz that took off from swing,
Bettie was from the south, Kerouac from New England
And Pollack from the Midwest,
All three came into their own in New York City,
Manhattan particularly, where Kerouac attended Columbia,
Pollack studied at the Art Student’s League and later signed with Peggy Guggenheim
And Bettie was discovered in a bikini on the beach
And soon became a regular at “camera club” meetings…
Besides Allen Ginsberg and William Burroughs and the other Beats,
There the other Abstract Expressionists, and Bunny Yeager and Irving Klaw…
There was Marilyn and James Dean and the other method actors at the Actor’s Studio,
And Tennessee Williams and Clifford Odets and Arthur Miller,
Whom Marilyn later married—
When he closes his eyes he can still smell her sweaty feet
And her mother’s sweaty feet and his mother’s sweaty feet…
The visions are relentless and show no sign of stopping so he stares into the darkness hoping to see the light of god come to rescue him—
But it’s neither revelation nor apocalypse that comes…
Eventually beauty became only a memory and all sound vanished except the wind



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