Sonnet to piss on it
Conceived in a shower of gold slapping Mom's lap. Old goat uncle - hard arteries and a dewlap - taught me from the cradle to lap suds off the floor. Before I could stand, lapped the other kids.
This all happened up in Lapland, where iced vodka to keep warm not weird. Also scads of stars to accompany heavy snow.
Early on I met this gypsy raised snakes in her hair. Knew I would kill her; just not sure how. Only nine. Unable to ejaculate. Murder seemed etiquette.
She sported awfully big tits; each heaven-scented. The way the odors of Opium, Poison, Paloma, sandalwood and snakeshit poured off her person drove me up a tree.
First thought I'd hang her from that tree. Be a lark; I could masturbate while she twitched. But, anorexic though she be, the witch outweighed me a ton. Musta been those tits. She a skeleton, minus the boobs. X-ray under a viper wig. No way I could hoist her that high.
Instead creeped up while she metabolized a snootful of tequila mixed with amanita beer. Scythed off in midsnore her cabeza.
My cousin the hatter had set me free with mercury from broken thermometers. I soared with the head miles over Mom's noodle. Soon cruised the coast for more tail with which I had not the foggiest what to do.
Tumbled to a virgin chained up on a beach; about to become a whale tidbit. Swooped down. Slit Moby's throat from baleine to butthole. Walked off with the babe.
Her parents hitched us. The guests got drunk at the wedding. The virgin's formerly betrothed and his homies pulled shivs. Surrounded yours prepubescently.
I displayed the witch head, which stopped everybody dead, hissing bloody snakes turning all to stone, especially in the weenie. Had the servants scatter priapic statues around the garden.
Got bushels of fab cukes that year. Also pink carrots with purple veins of Vitamin A. But even though I could spy a tattoo on the ankle of a flea in the dark, I still could not figure what to do in bed with the virgin. So gashed her from her no-adam's-apple clear to the mound of Venus around the bottom and back again.
Opened package. Pawed innards.
Unearthed fistfuls of swastikas inside her pancreas, which I identified by the organ's yellow (not as yellow as how I splashed into existence, but close). Her balls made cool marbles. Lids yielded lampshades. Enabling me to lucubrate far into the night. Cover to cover, though in a foreign tongue, I lapped up The Book.
A good book. About how lovely and hideous God is. Spent numerous nights and pages harping on the line of the lamb and the purity of the blood. When your dad is so heavy into golden showers you never even met the fuck, blood purity is your meat.
Apocrypha specify celery cleanses the blood. So I composted the cukes and carrots, tossed the chopped-up snakes plus half the water over the damsel's bladder on top the mess; sat back to await enough celery heads to think my way out of this stew: me with murder snowballing.
Then I started making love to guys. Hanging out behind bars. I was too young to get inside, of course. Even on the outskirts of Lapland you can't solo a bar when under double digits. After several brief and sticky alley affairs, I one night fell for a taut-strung guy anchoring an electrical pole beside a dumpster shared by a sailor bar and a seedy fish joint.
I was riding my joint up and down the thin cable, thinking of the murdered witch's braided serpents, hallucinating her salad of perfume and snakeshit, when the severed head parted lips to whisper inside my eyes, "This guy fits!"
My old goat uncle, rearing me while I lapped Budweiser off the linoleum, and his dewlap jounced, often warned, "Beware the cootie that fits!"
I got a mite suspicious, not overly anticipatory. So imagine how ticked I got when later it turned out this guy was a complete slut; had rubbed already nine out of ten kids in town.
Wound up strangling the guy with piano wire from a meat hook. Such are the salves we daub to love's wound.
Then took it out on the poles. Flew over Warsaw the worst war you ever saw. Rushed into Russia. Covered St. Shitbird in pure blood. I was crying out for more in my nightmare when Mom snapped on the light. Asked, "What - wet the bed again?"
I lay sobbing, allowing her the sweat to mop up a nation in ruins. A people with hands up to a pissedoff God. Corpses praying to the flies.
Musta passed out. I couldn't help it - it was in my jeans.
Mom came and went, shuddering in the head each time she wrang the mop.
In my mind somewhere over the hills wailed the hoarse weasel song. The Queen of Egypt twisted in her guts crosses.
Rolled over into a dog dreaming a rabbit. Paws flexing; muzzle fleering; slobbering cyberspace till the mutt bit rabbit. Me just a kid napping in the arms of my star witch.