Lizzy Borden’s Condoms

Mother Nature is a hermaphrodite
and all the clouds have VD.
They rain Pepto-Bismol formaldehyde
from her bosom shaped like a penis,
it falls and fills vending machines used a chapels,
where sipping is approved by the FDA
as cures for prophecy baldness.

Toasts are made at a depositor’s mortuary
unto the glory of ecumenical hairdressing bowling allies
where lessons are given in Braille psychic readings
written as gospel tracts for domino prosperity.

Inebriation is given a neon whoopee cushion badge
before everyone marches off to a cinema all night car wash
offering a yogurt baptism by their loofah crosses.

The mind vomits another javelin
in hopes of piercing the labyrinth
where the hemorrhaging mural of afterbirth regrets
keeps the brain swimming in a septic tank,
can’t stop the menstrual infection of wisdom’s yen and yang.

Wading through the slime stardust basement
hearing Peter Pan play poker with Dracula,
in quest of a prophylactic
for the cannibal Casanova hiding in the john
who has a fanged Venus for a lover.

Feeling trapped in the looking glass
sometimes wishing Eden had been nuked
before creation went insane,
desperately holding a séance
to summon the spirit of Christopher Columbus
and prove the world is really flat
so it will stop spinning in your head
having voices that murdered goldilocks
with forty whacks.