They're selling primal screams for a dime a piece
You get yourself a ten-minute holler
Set you down in an empty room with a beautiful sexy woman
She loves you they say you can have her
She has flowers in her hair tears in her eyes
& you wonder what that painting on the wall means
She says the end of surrealism is the beginning of
neo narcissistic nude
& she laughs wickedly when you tell her of the time
Matisse tainted Picasso's widow
with the red flowers of Dada Impressionism
She says the bolt of macho is the cantankerous of necessity
in a social vacuum
The mothers of fear are the daughters of kvetch
Sex is outre
You say bacon & eggs are my mistress
I speak no cunnilingus to the shadows of concatenation
Surely death is ethereal
She says lamb is the white of me & wolf is my fairy godmother
Tell me of the wisdom of de Sade
Did Lamartine paint his mother word naked of Russian gutterals
Who slept the bed of Snow White in glass slippers
I am tantamount to becoming termagant
You say that's not the way it cooks in Philadelphia
Cream cheeze is muse to the nine daughters of punk
& wave is a haircut for freaky bee-bop of abstract expression
She says Heidegger had the last word
on the chicken & the egg
& I'll not be one-upped by a swindler from camp
You say neato awesome gross but totally no thanks
& you pop a dime in her ear & ring the buzzer
A lady says she'll show you to the kitchen for a dance
of white meat & fries: You coalesce to the ersatz
Remember that tie-dye liqueur
brewed from Dali's most famous pictures?
A rich lady drank it, and not long after,
her skin began sagging like a melting cello.
When the doctor depressed her tongue,
he saw the flames of burning giraffes
licking the back of her throat.
Further examination revealed
that her heart had become a small elephant,
its many-jointed mosquito-legs
running through her body like tendons.
The doctor mined her gallbladder's veins
of melting watches, and thought that was that.
But after she died, the mortician opened her up
and found sheets of golden continents
hanging in her stomach, silent as stalactites.