Anthulla

Anthulla’s mother was an Edwardian holdover—
And her father a Romantic poet,
Her son became a Buddhist and she was just confused—
Her skull cracking open with deep thoughts
Of mothers and daughters giving deep throat;
Tomboys dressed like whores to drink a fat girl’s vomit,
Sneaking into the bathroom
To breathe her mother’s farts—
Her sister choosing to breathe her father’s,
So musty and masculine,
The fat girl pulling her bikini bottom to one side
To stuff her fingers up her rectum
To show her new Jewish friend the trick
Her grandmother taught her inspired by Anthulla’s sweaty feet,
That’s no lie and no secret—
Russian pensioners turning tricks on the boulevard
While I search for Anthulla,
Who is being held in handcuffs upside down
In a jar of honey in an Orthodox Church—
Frozen with her tongue extended,
Somewhere in this world someone’s nailing their’ grandmother
Who’s a whore, whose mother is an Edwardian holdover
Who remembers world war one
Better than we ever learned it in school—
As she insists on taking it in the butt where it hurts most
In front of her slope-eyed granddaughter—
Grandma likes black guys but not Americans
Because they aren’t black enough, she says
And I have to agree, Shakespeare and Korean pussy
Having gone to their brain,
Blonde trailer trash willing to lick hairy assholes—
Their grandmothers white with Mexican nieces—
And to this day I have not been able to find Anthulla
Though I did find her mother again and again—
Once with her fly open and another time with her pants down
And then again with her skirt up around her waist
And her thong around her ankles—
It didn’t occur to me at the time to tell her I loved her,
Though now I wish I had
But I won’t miss my chance to fuck a fat Japanese girl
Or an anorexic Italian girl
Or a housewife from anywhere in the world—
Every housewife’s knows she’s a whore
And every whore knows she’s not sexy,
Otherwise there wouldn’t be any housewives and whores

Anthulla is an upside down three-holed two-titted foot monster
With a human head infesting the crotch of the Goddess—
Anthulla’s pussy invested with Buddhist ants at every turn,
All with German fashion models faces,
But it’s Anthulla who pees like an American—
As I think about her small feet tapping on the ceiling,
And her tiny ass wanting to chew the meat off it—
Skull fucking her until her lips bleed,
It helps if she’s knocked unconscious,
Otherwise she might cry out in pain
As her lips tear and her tongue stuffed down her throat,
Because she loves it and I love her in the mystical night of all true souls, Anthulla’s gray pencil skirt lifted like a shade
Revealing the golden compass between her thighs—
My whole hand shoved in her sphincter
My fingers smothered in her soft, wet shit stretching her intestine like catgut, playing her insides like a Stradivarius—
Anthulla shitting into my cupped hands and I devour it like manna,
I think she’s of Asian descent, since she likes to pee in public
Her ass could be a blanket of stars from another time,
Another place, another planet, turds dropping like candy
From heaven into some random guido’s mouth—
She cries out for Jesus but Jesus only pisses on her,
She’s a roman catholic not some dirty hippie chick
Stinking of Decameron sewers—
I dream of Anthulla choking on her own vomit like a rock star,
Or hanging by the neck in a bedroom closet,
Beautiful, no, but married to Salvador Dali’s brand of magic Surrealism, she’s the only one that can take me back home,
In a million years Anthulla will still be giving head
To frozen Olmec warriors, her belly glowing,
A whore and mother facedown in the toilet—
Flying on angel’s wings over the abyss,
Following Victoria’s fat skull freshly fucked
With her eyes wide open, prom dress stained with sperm and champagne—

Colder than her Navaho soul the war started,
The sky filling with drones, her mother crying out in panic,
Anthulla never has to fear chance or coincidence—
She’s an upside down three-holed two-titted foot monster
From the beginning of time, she knew man when Pico and Vico were lovers, she shit brown Eve out of her golden asshole
And wears her hot pink bikini just so I can take it off—

One would think that by the year 1967 the flip curl would have gone out of fashion but it was still alive like some undead thing
From the long distant and forgotten past, Anthulla,
You’re fine like an atom bomb but no one remembers what that is,
We all know Bettie Page as if she were a sexy aunt
Or a neighbor who keeps her blinds open while she’s undressing
And she’s into some weird shit and doesn’t care who knows
And who we see in church every Sunday morning—
Phoebe, you’re hot as Greek fire and as difficult to put out with water, you’re an Elemental living in the deep forest glade—
The only two things missing in my life are love and money
And I’ve never had either to really speak of
And never really missed them either except when it came to drugs and sex but the past is the past and the future is the future
And now is now so I guess there are four things missing,
Love, money, sex and drugs and I miss them all terribly
Now that I think about but I won’t be thinking about them for very much longer—
I do miss Anthulla’s tiny tight ass but I think about it all the time
In between thoughts of God when I pray and I pray all the time—
I do miss Phoebe’s soft sweet tits
And I think about them all the time too or almost all of the time
When I’m not thinking about smoking a fat joint or popping a pill,
Which I don’t do but have done frequently but not lately
I’ve given up on beauty but not on art and I’ve never had any faith in ugly women, I squared the circle and what did it get me,
A fat chick, an ugly chick and somebody’s mother who was good while she lasted—
But I get bored looking for dialectical synthesis
And I get bored with this world,
It’s all dialectical synthesis and reincarnation,
Kierkegaard and Pascal, Hegel and Nietzsche and Schopenhauer
And Wagner all with perfect reoccurring timing
And Ashkenazim blood flowing through their Slavic veins—
The 19th century is long over and the Millennium is long overdue
Frozen like a revolving door to another dimension that I keep going through, I can’t stand this feeling of time standing still if I can even call it a feeling—
My dreams used to come true all of the time
But now I can’t dream enough, lately I don’t even know why
I bother sleeping when I just move from cold and dark
To hot light and back again passing through a pleasant limbo where the cats lives—
Abstract shapes have always been good to me,
I’ve always been attracted to a primordial time,
A time before planets when space was just gas
And life was the only the gods at war with chaos
And out of that darkness the light shone from on high
And made a compass and the dark Nephilim descended
Unto the pale bodies of the daughters of men
Who gave birth to a race of monsters and demons
As the angels looked on and even the atoms were blessed
And the moon shone in the first night and the stars were so near
They could be touched with fiery fingers
And Anthulla and Phoebe emerged from the primal sea,
Walking on the white beach naked and pale
Until their smooth clean skin turned brown
In the combined light of the hot new sun and fresh moon
And their breath was the first perfume
And they slept beneath clear blankets of blue sky
And I was a Nihilist even then,
Painting their golden virgin skin with the poetry of man
And one would think that long straight hair
Would have long gone out of style but it hasn’t
And the two girls still wear it that way—

Sometimes I feel like a fallen angel wandering stone corridors
Of Limbo searching for the sexy white haired woman
That I can barely remember that I’ll never find though
I see her reflection in the mirror that I confront around each stone corner in the drafty halls and high mosaic ceilings
Of a stone palace that is home to no one but still my home in some way as if I own it, as I dreamed it up in its entirety,
Now what do you call that but an internalization of subjectivity
That I think is reason but is really insane and all in my brain
Where I search for truth but find nothing—
I call myself a Christian and an atheist too but not an Existentialist
But I swear I’m a Nihilist because believing in nothing
Is the belief all one really has left when everything is swept away
Or gathered together—
Flesh will be flesh at the end of the world and nothing will be anything else, you’re only pure if you’re black and white
And even then you only exist on film
And you’re an angel and don’t really exist—

The atom bomb came and went, the kohl eyed punk girl
Is no beauty but then again she’s all you’ve got
Except for far fetched fantasies of your mother
That is all one in the same with the kohl-eyed girl
And she’s nowhere to be found but you see her in your mind in every detail—

And that’s good enough on any given night
And as good as any whore you’ve ever had hit the mute button
And watch the psychedelic cartoons as she smokes
And drinks and sucks your dick—

Batman never lies and never even tries so that makes him a saint
And she’s all right with being treated like a whore
Or a dog or an ashtray or a toilet and sometimes I feel like a fallen angel wandering stone corridors trying to find the door
That opens onto Oblivion where there is only darkness
And whipping wind but I don’t step outside
But holding the latch I pull the door closed
And realize the corridor is filled with bright candlelight
From a seven-branched candelabra that I didn’t light,
So I’m not alone but the someone there isn’t there
Or at least I can’t see them
Or maybe they just aren’t showing themselves
And maybe they aren’t blonde but a big assed Armenian,
America’s corrupt sweetheart with cock on her breath
And holes the size of galaxies
That I can see countless constellations of fiery stars
In the empty universal distance and I’m left to imagine who it could be, Jesus Christ or the beautiful flat-chested blonde of my dreams—

Which the Angels did desire,
Ultimate compensation; rain in Chili,
The way things have to be to be
Lucy gets her due in a snow setting,
Summer rains falling like the truth
To the ground as wet leaves
In a place I’m leaving—
Trees grow up from bushes,
Twisting vines whose gazes are snakes
In the Garden of Eden—
I choose my Eve from the Three Graces
Of Logic, Semantics and Dialectics—
So Greek, so Now, So Italian, no—
Given to having a crush on lesbians,
Holding their baggage
And trucking it up antique stairs—
While they subconsciously dress Victorian
Walking the floor, petticoats riding up
And Lucy gets her due—
An alien race comes to earth
In a giant metallic ship that resembles
A corporate building—
A plaque on the side of the ship
Reading “We Are Evolutionists”
With other writing in Hebrew—
The alien ship lands on the Upper East Side
Where the aliens know someone
Will be able to translate Hebrew—
They tell a friend and me
To make something “to play with”—
There are buttons and levers
Like on a soda machine
To choose height, hair color, body type,
Flesh color and breast size—
The levers then release viscous goo
From each spout that congeals
Into synthetic human females
That can be used as living dolls
Or “playthings” that talks but the aliens
Didn’t know we’d want to talk to the avatars
So there is no voice selection—
“Everybody goes in for a little spanky-spanky,
What Sodom and Gomorrah were built on”,
Lucy getting her due,
Which the Angels did desire—

“That the sons of God saw the daughters of men that they were fair; and they took them wives of all which they chose.”
 Genesis 6:1-3

The black leather booted daughters of men
Seduced the Nephelim with their golden skin and cherry red nipples with royal ass of pure geometry walking the new earth hairless far from the angels in fishnets with cunts like roses—
Orange and pink and brown, coughing with tuberculosis
Before STDs were invented and waged war against their ugly sisters who declared peace in the garden of creation without faces,
Who sought out and sucked off old men before graffiti covered walls were built to surround them, the sons of heaven descending like skater boys saw the false virgins and their six-inch wooden idols imagining pussy sweeter than ripe apples and tangy as fresh lemons with clits like green grapes from the blessed vines—
Cats yowl and dogs howl and Elizabethan poets write sonnets
That blind Puritans cannot suppress, nor the sight of a naked Elizabeth erase from the modernized memory of the mad men of Gotham nor replace pregnant with soul, mothers wandering the desert spelling out her desires in ancient images on earthen jars—
Tales from the tabloids and distant stars, seizing the sun
With both hands and fucking it without shame in the heat—
He’s only a retarded boy with a big dick that he uses with impunity
As she wraps her lips around perpetual dawn,
There were no cops in those days, only thieves and broken windows where she squatted in the dark and peed praying for midnight—
She shit into his mouth and he chewed but the turd just melted
And smoothly slid over his tongue and down his willing throat—
A million daughters later her hole is bruised and red,
Her pink skin purple, her golden ass swollen,
Her thighs chafed and bleeding, her teeth green and broken
From too much crack and sugar, her eyes blackened,
Her diamond tiara tarnished, her toenails painted turquoise chipped—
And still she has no face, no man-made god made her in his image—
From red clay or a spare rib, or blew his hot holy breath into her anus, her Mediterranean sphincter puckering and blowing kisses,
As she’s born skewered on six-inch heel, aborted and reincarnated electric, striped like a zebra and streetwise her long legs unfolded—
Her karma yoga sunlit and blonde with no soul to speak of,
Miss America’s ass nestled on a porcelain throne as she takes big whiffs of the Pakistani girl’s ass stink on a dreamlike midnight
Staring at the full moon raping saints that are stars—
The black leather booted daughters of men have bulbous, hanging tits, ripe and wet the first time she was fingered,
Red as the Nile where Moses dipped his cock
Encased in foreskin swimming to the shore of Atlantis,
The ark of her cunt transparent as starlight filled with time,
Hopeful, gagged and hogtied, Eve spitting the sticky pit of the forbidden fruit into his pockmarked face before beauty was born
There she was looking over her tensed shoulder
To see whom was cumming in her ass not seeing dark Eros or Narcissus—
Slant-eyed harlot the first mail-order bride, the first honor killing—
The last Mexican drug mule to see the sweaty face of the Mayan sun as it grows cold and night descends, midnight coming at last

“There were giants in the earth in those days; and also after that, when the sons of God came in unto the daughters of men, and they bare children to them, the same became mighty men which were of old, men of renown.”
 Genesis 6:3-5

Madonna emerges from the fiery flames of Anthulla’s thick, white ass—
Like a salamander slithering into existence from the ether,
Robert and Elizabeth visiting Emily’s grave
As she emerges draped in Francesca’s white shroud,
The dust from their fingers taken by the wind to Italy,
Anthulla, bolder, chucks her false teeth in the lake—
She was my lawyer but her finesse at fellatio was lacking,
She walked along the pier in Texas waiting for a bus
To Mexico, alas, the women who walk in shadows have familiar faces, Madonna’s skull filled with sea foam and the deep pink truth
Have Christ to thank for Pythagoras’s peaceful prayers,
As angels fly through the political pollution of the Vatican—

The Moroccan girl was sixteen when she drank poison and died dragged by the hair through the dirty alley by the rapist she was by law forced to marry

Their mothers sprinkled their confessions with brown sugar
And cinnamon until the truth made them vomit into Madonna’s mouth gaping with tongue aflame with Anthulla’s ring of roses—
Her stoner’s scent the gift of chocolate reminding her of youth,
No teacher ever left her grave so clean, I don’t think of her as Jewish, rain in the alley cleansing her, I don’t think of her as Spanish—
She recognizes my cock in the dark through the smoke
As I burn her worn out clothes like tomorrow’s sin,
Her geometry like time abused until it crawls and pees on all fours—
I search for the root and finding none keep searching in the dark
At the cool edge of the water her face a teenage moon can’t be stopped, her drunken eternity released like a cold fart—

The Ukrainian girl was eighteen when the sons of two well-connected officials drugged her and raped her and pissed on her, dousing her naked body with gasoline and setting her on fire

She gives gospel bj’s to the holy choir one by one
Sainted and delicious, her twin emerging like desire from the mind—
To Lina, my Rose La touché, I bequeath the empire of sand,
Her plastic heart a revelation, her tight black jeans naked salvation,
No virgins walk this earth and no atheist ever killed anyone
Because they disagreed with his opinion
And no religion says thou shalt not rape children—
The blonde bitch beside Anthulla in bed is unkind,
The windows dirty—
Making a woman orgasm, a work of art and a cat happy
Is both harder and easier than it looks,
Silence is the dream of John Ruskin and Gil Elvgren—
Her thirty-year-old son fucked her while she was young
By decree of André Breton and the holy surrealists—
Her ass and mouth opening onto the same photogenic wormhole—

Madonna emerging from the fiery flames of Anthulla’s holy white ass thought the Vatican’s assassin that she met in the dark club was the uncle with whom she’d an incestuous affair with years ago but he wasn’t—

Her pink hands are on fire just like the words from her mouth—
She’s thrown into the air and blows kisses while Icarus pouts,
She’s like a cat that can’t stop dreaming of fleas,
Gifted with the millions of Mitt Romney, she weaves a web like a spider but she’s cold as an anorexic breeze—
A gay guy wanted to blow me and just the thought made me want to throw up so I entered another world where the girls were high on cough syrup—
Where Jews got high on mother’s milk and grandmothers were proud of their perversions, I wanted to stay but the madness got the best of me—
Barry White whispered, “Boy, go get laid,” but I didn’t listen,
Too afraid I guess that the Japanese girl’s pussy had teeth—
Now I’d give anything to come on her face one time more,
She was the toilet but I didn’t have to go and Kelly Wells was just too old—
She screamed for a minute than barked like a dog,
She wasn’t ugly but her intentions were clear
After all there’s only one reason to wear boots in bed—
The room hung with crystals and clouded with smoke,
Though it was a straight line to the door, love had already bitten me—
My paintbrush knew all it wanted to do was paint Rachel’s’ portrait but that was before I saw her tattoos; she could have Miss Utah for all I knew but what I did know was that the thought of nailing somebody’s mother or a Russian girl always turned me off, what do Russian girls know of Michelangelo caught in a Byzantine net Russians are a people made of stone,
Who live in stone houses but are never alone,
But are surrounded by gargoyles and golem walking in the dark
Everyone loves a prostitute but prostitutes don’t love me
Except for the blonde vampire that ate my soul
That grew back like Prometheus’ liver with the coming of each dawn—
My best friend Hercules got her pregnant and she gave birth to the Nephelim and raised the baby in the attic where Amselm Kiefer stores his Third Reich souvenirs where Carl Andre keeps his bricks, where blind children play, their incantations silent, where Ana Mendiata keeps her vibrating skull—
Her meaning takes deep breaths and she doesn’t know why her father forbid her to cry because there are no mothers at noon, only square dancers with broken noses, the moon pale and bright over Russia, the soles of her cheap stockings tearing as she walks over gravel, in church we learn to renounce Satan, in school we learn to measure the circumference of the earth—
So to answer the question of how far would one have to go to get away from Satan, one can never go far enough, her pinks hands are so familiar—
Her tongue red as flame, the bottoms of her feet filthy, yet she walks endlessly pacing, putting strange things into her mouth like her mother’s dirty ass, her mother’s ancient tongue aflame—

Is it possible for a pig with no soul to go to heaven or hell at all?2a2baecd059af01c5219e5d1acc0c8ca 41e8329d0be6f506290f6a706700d02b

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