The Forensic Pleasures of a Plastic Madonna
Prologue:
she hears the Broken Girls of Magick Street singing
in the abandoned theater
watching the earliest surviving pornographic film
“I don’t know what I’m going to do Lord
I don’t know. I can’t see….
I….”
knives flashed behind her retinas as she applied eyeliner and mascara
preparing for the Judith Complex
a treasure from the vault of decay
they were sitting back to back
as the filmmaker inspected random wandering wombs
no longer a concern of the experimental scientists
punitive energy aroused them
generating symptoms of melancholy
when she was discovered under the table
she couldn’t describe what had happened
wet and wild, she blissed out
in the backseat of the GTO
psychotic colors generated by the Kill Room
did nothing to placate her anxiety
Mainline:
she started to ride when her imagination fractured
she eradicated the few doubts she had left
she obliterated the curse of reality television but
she was unsure about her orgasm
as she stared and stared avoiding the gaze of the others
her legs gripped the squirmy-squirmy robot
“One thousand dollars,” she said
“it’s worth the price, I swear”
« the function of the clitoris,” she said
“My own passionate tapes of our fucking activities,” she continued
“Thinking about what you did on an instinctive level.
Before it relied on sin. left it to me and my efforts,
I had climaxed revealed mega-contractions
in rhythm with the saints. (Me taken sideways),
Are you in? kaleidoscopic rhythms exuded from every well-explored orifice:
so sensitive so exciting.”
she gazed then laughed and remembered a vintage movie she loved
she craved to give in, to empty her soul onto the linoleum floor
she had the yen to fuck Lemmy Caution
she yearned for wild things that would help her obliterate
she picked up the remote pressed play
licked her lips as the digital file started writhing
she was appalled then liberated by the depravity of the actions
that were displayed
she was guilty
she was evil
she was gorgeous
and she knew it
she watched for 59 minutes and slammed the screen
her boot splintering the picture-show
she placed the shards in her mouth
swallowed hard it caught in her throat only for a moment
now the image was embedded in her brain
a permanent record to review
“get out. i bit you. you held me too close in painstaking
uncomfortable detail. i’m wet. i’m pain. fill me now.”
a time in wonderland
a fork in the flesh
a bite on the neck on the left side
where she was ticklish
a smut peddler persecuted by the media
flesh sliced while raw and fed to a machine
fingers generated sounds and taste
hidden behind one more TV set
discussion necessary a wall split in half
she can’t hear them now
“they won’t hurt. no love no noise
the simple war between me and you.”
as she performed the sign of the cross not 7 times but 70 X 7
this would help with her prayer requests
a look into the occult as a replacement for barbiturates
she was sure the pimp had branched out into the psyche
In various religious and beautiful dark cock/cunt sonatas
it tried to develop its perfect side
all manner of buildings burned down
last hiding places of the CIA
she was looking for the nuns inside
where they hid fingering the beads
took off and showed the lies
to the trembling test subjects
Epilogue-Crash (the next day):
it was most frustrating and quite disturbing
“You have a lovely face,” everyone had told her
even though it was flecked with red spots
a byproduct of the previous evening’s activities
her face was coated with sex heated wetness and swelling
the advertisements had promised:
“Every 25 seconds someone finds love. Love is always closer than you think.”
PARIS POETRY 