The Public Education Of Betty Page (collaboration with Zazie: http://www.zazie.at/Index/)

Afternoon’s Rosy Mouth
 
 
 
 
          “I think we’re alone now” the god whispered to the ice.
And at afternoon’s rosy mouth he entered, not breathing but still groin-deep
in the glacier while she stood with attendant apes in the bridal tent.
All protest is canceled pending tea
and her rucksack is pregnant with cucumber sandwiches.
The god held a brochure explaining the location of her bed
but it was in a language not yet adapted for man’s use
having just been extracted from deep inside the god’s gullet.
“Open a little wider” the god whispered to the woman,
“Your mouth’s a bed of flowers or a swinging floral door.
The controls are responding once more
so we must rise to rinse and sponge the mess
from behind the child’s wicker hamper.”
One more shot then rinse spit rinse spit into a small cup made of pressed orchids.
I fear she is a hand-tatted locomotive upon which we are carried to communion.
She is a swift pine omnibus. Any questions about her swift pine omnibus?
The glare off the bus’s cheap porcelain rails is our only salary
and then it is twilight.
Her hand-tatted locomotive steam subsides leaving a brochure.
“Drink the cocktail of my eyes” the god whispered to the omnibus.
One more shot then rinse spit rinse spit into a small cup made of pressed orchids.
My heart holds the hot water for her tea-gold hair
and her fathomable mouth rose in a pastry cloth beneath the scarred white trees
and her smug breasts add another damned rose or two to the scene.
Her voice shyly bends after the kisses that were thrown to the glacier’s floor
when she rinses them and gives them to the child.
O mouth eating the kiss on the voice’s stairs.
O little floral door.
Rinse spit rinse spit into a small cup made of pressed orchids.

JUST ANOTHER REUNION