26. burning like squibs

Palimpsests on the nuns’ tummies










I’ve seen the iron-willed pencil

with which my busy umbrella striates

its delirium tremens on the tarnished buttocks

of all those clouds so pregnant with malice

– all of them rostrums embellished

with twee tackiness and average abjection

from where stultified heads of preachers preach

their claustrophobia into spirals of pocks

that rain on earth and roam the men’s-rooms

where mopey moan the moraines.



Pocky are the morbid buttocks

every pock a stemma that oozes semens

as if it were another Roman nun’s navel.



Ah the semens – nemeses of my mama!



Would she pester against the establishment!



An establishment that allows the demeaning of the female

whose vulnerability

(like the podophthalmic antennae of the crabs that haunt the merkins

the stilted gems whose meaningful wet samaras fall

like omens on the ludicrous wobbly cobbles

where the manhoods of men trot larval and writhing)

an establishment vile enough to wallow

on the ruins of the vulnerable female made then as labile

as the dry striated semens the nuns umbilically store

stunning sluts seen from a distance...



Wiry by the wayside

sheltered by some rusty eaves from the slums

tried as an awkward obstetrician to read the new wisdom written

by the pencil of my umbrella on the bankrupted marrow of the sky...



It was like trying to read luggies and snot

collapsed on the hilt of my hand

a semen cru of a dispirited vintage gone to pot.



My mom was right

musclemen emboss with their fist the welkins

as if the welkins were the walls of their dens

where they mate and sputter

and scatter the entrails and whittle the skulls.



And the morbid clouds are the foolhardy buttocks

where the fists collided

the teasing asses

harnessed in poisonous chill where the noses snooped

and later the mops erased the names of the mimes that came to cry

their semens entanglements of resented writings done

with pricks that were fists.



Pops like a van carrying fireworks and exploding midway

a bolt of lightning.



With this

(my eyes on stilts burning like squibs)

to nil comes my cavil

I only know that

the sky’s the puppet ass of a worthless fat whore also.