Missionary position it is, my cross-eyed dream,
I'm on my knees praying for inspiration
While your mud-pack coagulates
In purple-grey caked scales
Like a facial scab-mask
Flanging either side of your nose.
Want a mirror? Aaaah! Turn around,
OK and praise the Lord. I'll lick you
Between dronings from first lines
Of all sixty-nine hundred of my instant classics.
Words march off the page behind your furry ear
With effrontery and syrup.
Suddenly, six blue devils alight on your dotted posterior
And dance a merry jig with sick gleams
In their furnace eyes. Where are those marshmallow times,
Love, when a hug meant "I love you" instead of,
"I’m frisking for drugs"? The Staple Sisters have attached
Themselves to my slipper soul, crooning an elegy.
Been down here for three minutes already, Ethereal One.
You're a monstrous cog in Noah's plan,
The fount I mount over freshet-spilling hillocks,
Alarmed, humming. Gimme a hummer!
Thank God, the alarm clock saved me.
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