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By Stark Hunter and D Lee
1. “When the Lipstick Girls Walk By”
You can push and shove your way,
Past all the driveling mindless mannequins,
Who bend over when the lipstick girls walk by.
No sense in being nice today or tomorrow,
Since every old fool is a phony anyway.
The Rhododendrons in my garden are emasculating the weeds,
And the acute disease of crotch rot has taken seed;
Maybe you think this is a sad joke,
Or an accidentally-thrown tomato of rotten thoughts?
Maybe you think my feelings have no skin?
Let’s stop all the foolish talk now,
And let’s hold hands. Let us seal the deal,
Here in this flesh garden,
This premeditated fling with skin cream and cancelled prayers.
Have you no decency?
Here is your hat, cover yourself.
2 “Of Meaningless Glances”
We, you and Me, can sit silently in a circle,
Inside this rigged invocation under the stars,
As the world of things, flung afar,
Rain down upon the solitude of which we strive.
Let us interlock, and enter into this dark dive,
This tavern of meaningless glances,
Of hopeful interludes in the dark;
I don’t know what lurks in the closet, do you?
Shuttered away, though in close proximity to
An ambiguous opening that pulses eyelike;
There is no death in this dream dance;
The brass door knob is icy cold,
As the lipstick girls,
With lips of ice,
Turn the handle.
“Is there a hook for my stained hat?”
Let us sit, you and me, in this rigged circle,
The body of things are passionately torn away,
The tools of the trade reveal pulsingly,
Eroticism’s charm, as tilted skirt,
And frozen glances askance, reveal
The mad scenes of the ghost dancers,
As doors, mysterious to the crowds, close
And are locked;
The icy shade of winter’s hem is
Bathed in luminous light,
The darkness washes onto the drains,
Down to the ocean’s mouth.
3 “An Archway!”
an archway opens on to a soporific plaza,
that pours outwardly in colorful asymmetric
displays, that once incited the bones of an organic past
steeped in a rich broth, an ancestral heaving stew
quietly simmering to a point of boil.
the humble ones, once alive to the core, move to and fro,
cornered and stultified by conventions, babbling broken mantras,
they attempt to sooth the spirits daunting deadly pricks
the lipstick girls of the labial folds, that exist beyond the pale
of a refracting sun’s light, hover between ghostly spheres
of a lost sacerdotal history, wet with gloss,
yearningly enchant youthful acolytes who, painted in salacious
priestly pastels, patterned up to placate the Ones,
fully endowed and exuding in virginal carnality,
fall willingly into their own demise, caressed by the
spreading tongs, in the act of sacrifice.
an archway opens out to a thriving, heaving plaza.
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