April Prose Poem

The old faithful witch of the wood is here to join me in conducting tonight’s ceremonies; there is a buffet in the church basement, help yourselves, Jezebel’s space wagon has the wingspan of twelve-hundred gulls, out in the thick jello green where there ain’t no laws at all, that’s where you find yourself granted 100% total pixilated recall, a gift you’d rather not have been given and for which you have no damn use at all, Jerusalem being marked and Rome about to fall, the blue movie shimmering on island in den, we are the outreach workers of mossy purgatory, slide down off the crucifix and fix ourselves some ripe curses to affix to the automobiles in the motorcade that reach out to us personally in damp telepathic neural-tongue, begging: please mister, get in me!

The belle of the ball could not be here with us tonight, she sends her regrets, but she had to leave seven minutes ago when I looked up her dress and told her she’s a pest, it’s not like she was brought here under duress in her little red dress with Peanuts characters on her purse, her adamant directions: make these pale Jesus-freaks understand a field agent or saboteur have to lie and dissimulate frequently so you need to understand as well as understanding may that if work lies intended to undermine and compromise crawl over into your waking life, something with fangs this way cometh, phasing-out in bisexual colorus, blue, pink, purple...and you’re Jupiter red no matter how you’re spread. 

The pure past exists in two presents that the spiritual supplicant must name, and face, and then suppress, ‘cause I assure you it’s a complete fucking mess, like going out behind the church and coming back with cum on your dress, your hair all mussed and distressed; I got two men who are precision shots at the back of the room, Libertatia in 1700, Cthulhu Club, pumping in that Studio One dub, it’s the same shit forever that we won’t stop shitting, never thinking we clever, shaded from censure, but no longer able to act out Sacher-Masoch as a cassock raiding the grain elevators of Saskatchewan, face obscured by kerchief,  cut so thin that the margins rescind and all Holly Golightlys go lightly, the old faithful witch of the wood cuts herself a switch, fills in the gap: make no mistake, Jezel, it is cannibalistically that I chew on your lip just as the identity of an overcoded aggregate cannot be certified legit.