I paint the 20th Century with Gothic
gestures and subway sparks,
a background of clashing blues and reds,
and as Mtv watches
from a phonebooth in the sky,
I nail my yellow spider
to the universe, the constellations
of teeth and nails, silently
watching the milk pour down
the fur, yet somehow always whispering
my pussy’s wet and ready.
I return to toilets as if they were
church bells, or spiral
notebooks, in which I am handwriting
as always the names of the things
I think of, before the secret
tongue sticks out, and the kiss
of the spider becomes casual to mine
nerves, and it’s good-bye
again as every cork-eyed cat
descends from the silk-white arms
of the self-protected Pleiades.
