ALICE: where are my standards of beauty, what is the name of my horse
at this point we’re just
hair nearby the color of lactation,
that same kind of stain.
this language is unkind
this whelp making skirts from longer skirts
in the likeness of someone well-hung:
madonna of the scene of our latest humiliation.
just be in the inner throat of the room,
saying not a drop of sangoree.
wander up town and break
each crest with a mild burn
break each heart with a mention of the party
how felled how eaten and niptuck
the niptuck postively amorous.
our vocal apparatus shapes and flakes out
pushing the air into those same holdings:
madonna of the perspiring array,
our lady the man tamer
lordlier in the sweat,
young woman of the wilted pile,
of the smooth and then smooth
of the smile and bomb
of the very fine saliva petal sheen
the strange shape only seen