In the Beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God,
And formless and void Jesus moved over the waters
Like Barbie, male and female, like Michelangelo in a silk kimono—
Looking up her dress at her bush, her blue eyes like the moon and stars—
Public nudity consented to like statutory rape in Japan,
Like professional prostitutes in France,
Like professional models giving blowjobs to homeless artists,
Like a colorful lesbian on the beach, like a white girl with a big ass,
Vintage Brigitte Bardot, the perfect whore, a golden virgin,
In the beginning was Barbie in the perfect dress,
In the beginning was Jesus in a clown suit with a child out of wedlock—
How could such a little girl hold so much cum in her mouth?
The world may never know, dialectics of diminishing returns,
The single entity that moves the world may never know it gets better than being married and horny, take off your boots and let me sniff your toes
And tell your fortune and take your temperature and guess your weight—
You may not ask why, as you watch the Asian girls multiply—
And Jesus Christ won’t get out of bed for anything—
It’s been a while since I’ve seen a fat-assed Puerto Rican girl,
I used to see them al the time—
The albino Cherry who grew up a few doors down was the first that I’m aware of—
Time is a capsule,
What is this “bed of roses” I’ve always heard about,
It’s always some other guy’s girl in the handcuffs,
Like a cop that arrest a drunken female cop,
Leading the horny girl out to the street where they turn into hookers and detectives,
Bad ones—cheap hookers that will take it ass to mouth and then arrest you—
Posing as a hooker, leaning against the dark brick wall outside of a dive bar,
Willing to go the distance with two teenage kids at home and a gun in her mouth on her knees on a side street being recorded for our enjoyment—
The politicians get the real hookers and we get the cops—
Walking them to the avenue and never seeing them again, a yellow cab blurring by—
I bought my doll a fur coat, the rabbit that stood up to be counted—
I will try not to speak of the dead unless I’m having sex with them,
I drive home late at night, as usual, she’s always home, it’s like she never goes out—
I moved in years ago and one day married her, having since forgotten the address—
I could never return to the world that I knew, dead girls lying everywhere,
I didn’t want or need to see that except on some primitive level,
Where my limbic brain is demanding it like a psychotic reptile
Controlling my every movement like Bob Fosse—
But Jesus can’t do a thing without her, without her Jesus doesn’t want to do a damned thing—
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Lauren J Barnhart
Steve Klingaman
Hayley Rose
Blacklilly89
Ingrid Ricks
Cedar Burnett
Salon.com
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