Cunts
(First stanza)
(Upon
Receiving a Solicitation for Membership in The Swingers Life Club)
The Venus
de Milo didn’t have one, at least no pussy
that left
its shadow in the marble, but Botticelli’s Venus,
though
we cannot see it for her sea-anemone hand,
did, no
doubt-an amber-furred dear mouth we would kiss
could
we enter the Arcadian plane of the painting.
We must
assimilate cunts to our creed of beauty.
September
Morn held her thighs tight shut, and the dolls
we grew
up undressing had nothing much there, not even
MADE IN
USA,
but the
beauties we must learn to worship now all
have spread
legs, splayed in bedspreaded motel beds,
and the
snowflakes that burst forth are no two alike:
convolute
snapdragons, portal and tears
and T-bones
of hair, lips lurid as slices of salmon,
whirlpooly
wisps more ticklish than skin, black brooms
a witch
could ride cackling through the spatter of stars,
assholes
a-stare like monocles tiny as dimes.