this is the poem told to me by the boy Medusa
told things to in ancient times; the hair poets
wanting the sky to be as real as a cat &
cold in the street making for the door
to the room left open w/  the stars full of live
******* mouths in black seamed stockings;
finding a trace of blood & thinking instantly
of red hearts walking, yeh & writing beneath
the mind's ugly money used to set the sea on
fire w/ the phosphorous blue remains
of dead baby Americans; Igor's kids in space
feeling but not hearing the Russian calls to truth
in the spirit of the times; the nightclub where
the blondes are better cuz the lady is at war inside
her head etched in high notes; going to the window
w/ her hands on her father's hips;
hearing guys outside dancing, she latches onto
the sweet female's great truth, walking in
on the ***** whose ***** falls like stone
talking to the future of freeze-dried death  
& eating souls so ***** while writing bad
mirror images of boys ***** & deep smelling
like wives; yellow children wail for their mothers;
becoming stars whose lives return to speaking
Cantonese only when her drunk son calls; waiting
to work in the perfect place to turn pretty gay
rolling & dancing in heaven w/ blind faces;
walking, skipping, leaving her dreams to keep
laying in bed sure to be loved by the three
***** & wet lesbians eating cool Christian pink;  
thee's story that of a goddess' voice wearing ****,
lipstick & mascara; america's ghost filled w/
holy beauty is a painting of buttsex unseen