Blowjob for a Birthday
Who
The month of deflowering is over—
The fruit’s in, all of it simply rotten
The debutant balls are tumescent—
The dead mummies back in storage
The deadheads are back home again—
Couch potatoes in front of the TV
I’ll go into hiding in a flowerpot—
My heart is a stopped wilting geranium
The dogs are nosing in my entrails—
They’re peeing on the hydrangea bushes
The cabbage heads are wormy—
Nailed to the moldering rafters
The inmates are back in their cells—
Their veiny skin white as pork fat
O the beauty of abuse—
The orange pumpkins without eyes
The birds have pecked them all out—
Along with Tippi Hedren’s up in the attic
Dark House
There’s this house on haunted hill—
I made it myself up in my dizzy brain
I like to hide myself in a quiet corner—
Picking my nose & digging for ear-wax
It has so many cellars & crypts—
Such eelish delvings go on down there
It’s like Vincent Price after the plague—
The Last Man on Earth there in dead Rome
I must simply find a map outta here—
All these marrowy tunnels, mole-peopled
Creeps living in wells down there—
All of Miss Dante’s assholes live down there
It makes my nostrils quiver & go queer—
There’s a cuddly boy who loves me down there
Medusa
Once I was an ordinary lesbian—
Me and my lover drove with diesel dykes
When we thundered into town—
The str8ts hid away in their closets
Time unwinds itself with Sapphic grace—
The great umbilicus swallows us all
I’m sleep-drunk after draining dry—
The moon’s vat of vulva vibes
The Beast
The minotaur boy—
Such a lovely lanky young dish
The sun sits in his armpit—
Nothing ever gets moldy with him
Lady Gaga lives under his dunce cap—
It’s hard to get rid of him
The sky’s always falling on him—
Pig puddles and sty-faced kid
Hogwallow’s kept boy—
Mollusks and mud-sump happy
The Duchess of Nothing—
His Hairtusk’s bride
Skin-Flute News
He’s so cool going down—
Shifty-eyed down on my lily root
Our bower of old umbrellas—
Withering under his pitiless fingers
He squeezes the sky of his—
Black and blue dominion
There’s little or no shelter—
When his cruel wolf-mouth snarls
He strangles my fugitive lips—
Into a soft caul of forgetfulness
Silk worms weave my tomb—
Nodding nymphs like statues
I’m a puppet now loosed from—
The strings of the puppet-master
He wears a mask of horny antlers—
When he comes into bed with me
I’m tongueless underwater—
Beneath the reeds with crocodiles
Witch Burning
Can there be queer love after Auschwitz—
For those that survived the ovens?
Even after the war the queens were—
Rounded up for being ex-cocksuckers
The marketplace is always busy—
The str8ts piling up the dry sticks
They’re only to ready to burn us—
Make us climb into a bed of fire
It’s easy to flame the faggots—
Smoke always outta the chimneys
They’re turning the burners up—
Always inventing new sorts of plagues
Gimme a break, the queens say—
Knowing their days are numbered, dearie
I’m lost, I’m lost, my ankles brighten—
Then my thighs alit, there goes the disco!
St. Peter’s
This is the place where old queens—
And new queens are mended
They lie flat in the graveyard—
Beneath the flat blue anvil sky
They’ve flown outta the cuckoo’s nest—
They’ve entered the crypt of indifference
The headstones are peaceable—
The mouth-holes finally closed now
It’s a stone quarry of silence—
People of North Tawton drive by
Lichens kiss the time away—
Jewel-masters drill for gold
Worms chisel and pry away—
Farming the lovely pig’s sty
This is, after all, kaput—
Ear wigs worry getting inside
Face lifts don’t count anymore—
Night and day are the same
A workman walks by carrying—
A corpse once a pink torso
The churchyard full of extras—
This is the home of spare parts
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