The Forensic Pleasures of a Plastic Madonna


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….


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


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.”

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