The Now Trending Neuters
I warned you Khloe was only a sleaze
& her silicone breasts were just a con
for her doctor husband’s implant clinic!
To think it ended in mastectomy-blues
anyway, all sweet matter voided
by the coming waves of neuter sex.
Don’t worry about the horseshit experts
trying to debunk sexual assault by males
as an inveterate chauvinistic art form
somehow weakening the worldly rat race
swimming through the nexus of time.
She wore cheap jewel-encrusted panties
that were, she said, “marvelously trending”
& would drop them unannounced for me,
laughing at my sit-com face’s reaction. The
colorful & varied underwear once belonged
to a bordello courtesan — now quite deceased
— who flourished in the old Southwest
during a time of rapacious decline.
“Sociopaths, terrorist, mass murderers, &
rapists inflicting venom on society,” she said,
displaying her panties like front page news.
They had the word EAT flamboyantly there
emblazoned in bold neon letters. I sat there
meditating, Hamlet-style, on the heirloom-
fetishes we must all fall heir to, knowing
I was beyond obscenity in contemplating
any such underwear or unusual vestments,
then pulled them over my head
like a sleazy Vegas lounge comedian
& followed the written instructions.
Lost in the hyper-maze of daily (un)reality,
never mind how we rant between commercials,
the messenger is still the medium of holy fools.
Horoscope in Old Cat Eyes
The heart is a dead fetish.
Wind exacerbates old skin
on the earth’s violated face,
moths circle the light of ages
slowly fading out with sunset.
From breathing scent night caresses
in the alcove of spent dreams
I wake to see the rock altars
within a crucified mind’s lament,
spirits still trapped in trilobite brine.
Chanting slow feral rhymes now
for your guitar’s gentle strumming
unheard melodies winds transport.
The mind is a token relic
of what second thoughts become,
a spectral mote to witenss what
Giotto’s god-children are doing
on cave-frescos dripping blood
like the graffiti of sweet angels.
They wait so long in museums for
the rain to beatify cold statuary,
or the sun to warm bare greenery
in our afterlife’s al fresco palace.
How they gambol with fey offspring
almost animal like our past selves
on the fallen tree of geneaology
where branches bear our lost faces,
cleft by eyelids
winking shimmers of rain
the old caretakers will mop up;
careful not to disturb you,
an inertly antiquated form
losing your once human identity.
The soul is a digital mechanism
to be wired like a smart phone
when ringing deafens you:
morbid harbinger of banishment
for a spirit-trap no one lives in,
we marry into the otherworld
like the sightless children
of our former selves.
Peter Magliocco writes from Las Vegas, Nevada, where he occasionally edits the lit-zine ART:MAG. His most recent novel is SPLANX from Cosmic Egg Books. He has poetry at DEGENERATE LITERATURE, MIDNIGHT LANE BOUTIQUE, THE GREENSILK JOURNAL, WHISPERS, POETRY LIFE AND TIMES, and elsewhere. He’s been Pushcart nominated several times along with Best of the Net nominations in poetry.