Megan Smedley met Saint Peter barefoot in the desert,

Her toes aflame, rhymes tumbling from her mouth—

Saying Natalie Wood could pass for a Brit under a big sky,

Faceless and shy like Emma, like you, like Donatella Versace,

All the boys want you—

 

I see where you get your looks from,

Adam wasn’t so lucky,

God the father and the redhead with tattoos

Having it off in the next room

 

Like Walt Whitman and the Asian boy—

William Blake and his wife, like Coleridge

And some junky whore—

Like Emma and Joe

 

Like a teenage transvestite,

Like the host of a game show,

You wouldn’t know what hell looks like but you know how it smells

That’s the man that made you wear the mask

And ripped the crotch out of your black tights in the black light’s glow,

But you loved him Saint Peter told me so

The child of your left hand—

 

I think of you lying out in the sun

When I walk through the snow-covered churchyard

I read your Bible and went to your fashion show

Where the evil whore met me on the road      

You’re much younger than her sister and the nightmares you inspire

Eternity’s dreams, a mother’s screams

 

A mysterious rose blooms in the churchyard,

Its petals etched with your name

And with your face at its center—

The fly in your milk is a jewel-like twin,

Your eyes like manga emeralds—

 

Drunken statues at dawn of petite sluts

Hold your breath while I shit on you—

You’re my masterpiece, drunken Lucy sucking off an Arab—

Barefoot British poet’s face smeared with your lipstick,

Tongues of flaming slags,

The wet tongues of Suzie, Lara, Tania, Natasha, Paris and Rochelle

Have licked several and various penises and one another’s assholes

Every revolution needs a reign of terror, why pretend that it doesn’t—

 

Every revolution needs drunken slags,

All the boys want you—

Megan Smedley met Saint Peter barefoot in the desert,

Her toes aflame,