Have you come from the profound heavens or do you sort your laundry in the Wascomat?

O Beauty, the heavy look wrapped in whaleskin on my dining room table

Confuses these poems with ice cream sellers and crime stoppers

And they both won’t leave my wine cellar until I compare you to Pennsylvania.

In your zits a continent of halos has sat down.

You snap rubber bands up through smoke stacks like an orangutang of the evening.

Your kisses are a filtre and your mouth is an armoire

That writes the names of heroes on the sides of milk trucks with the hands of fearless children.

Do you dive in course ponds for golf balls at night or do you go down on millionaires on astroturf ?

The dustbin’s suit charmed your Japanese soup ladles like a dog.

You seem to be risking joy in the cuffs of your pants as your millionaire’s plane goes down in flames,

And you are governess to all and clean the ponds twice for no one.

You walk calmly on graham cracker crusts in boat shoes, but don’t you dare enter the mosque.

The homosexual rabbis don’t know what to say curled up next to the foot of your chair,

And the meter-maid, with melted cheese and the most expensive baloney money can buy,

Dances on the windowsill of your breezy orgy amorously.

There once was a dormouse with a blowgun who wrote verses to your twat by candlelight.

Creeping towards you in the cupboard he burst into flames and died. From his flames Japanese cars were born!

The large parts of love are leaning against the doorbell

Of your broker’s offices while you rub up against tom boys.

Whatever you came from, the sky or the sheep’s meadow, you’re an import.

O Beauty my long walker! ingenious tailor of edgeless rayon jumpsuits!

Sit on your sighs, your heavy, murky, heavy, pie-making thighs, I’ll get the door

For a car dealer I have always loved but have never met.

A throwback from the sixties or a librarian collecting fines, you’re an import. Roast beef or Queen of the Australians,

You’re an import. Make sure you tear it apart—you’ll find money in the hem of the curtains.

Twist me in the fireplace my skipper, o my sexless queen!

The universe hides out less frequently the fewer hospitals we approach.