They’re running along the borders
trying to escape boredom, I attempt
to keep up, but my eyes somersault from
their sockets, and swan dive into parchment ,
rolling on thorned ivy vines and steamy dreams.
Everything is golden, so golden like sunrise.
Just ahead, two monks toe a fleshen tightrope
of intestines, coming at each other from opposite
ends, trying to keep their balance, carrying swords
of perdition in their right hand, their own decapitated
noggins in their wrong hand. They present their heads
to each other tenderly like St. Valentine Day bouquets.
I think it’s romantic to lose your head that way, funny enough
so does a nearby Griffith wielding his violin to accompany them.
Gilded peaches drift daintily from his bow, his music plays
such ripe sweet notes. A peach bonks the head of a naked
daughter of Eve, pancake tits flapping in the wind.
She’s too busy flying on the jolly giant green penis dragon
she’s straddling to notice, but the jolly green giant penis gawks
the maw of his jap eye, receiving its fruit like the Holy Eucharist
Another creature saved by swallowing the Body of Christ:
Gloria in excelsis Deo.
A damsel drowning in the wake of her brown robes smiles
as she plucks another penis off the penis tree, She wears a veil
of constellations over her hair, the stars wisely avert their eyes.
She’s got three fresh-picked penises in her wicker basket. I wonder
how many penises it takes to bake a penis pie and ask her, but she’s
taken the vow of silence, so only nods and picks on. After all,
“When both our interior and exterior are quiet, God will do the rest.”
And God obviously enjoys baking a fresh penis pie observed in holy silence.
A Quasimodo Cupid harpoons the sphincter of a delighted merman
who obligingly lifts his haunches to better expose the underside
of his tail end. His crenellated flippers flutter against his face
flirtatiously like a sexy mimosa-sipping Spanish señorita’s lace fan.
And the rabbits are lighting tapered candles at the Pope’s altar.
And the monkey king is announcing
his presence by farting
through the mouth of his tapered tapestried trumpet.
And a nude blue goddess bodyscissors the skull of the guy
who supports the manuscript’s first sentence, her bare toes tickle
the narwhal cock that juts out of the first paragraph.
And the gaping Hellmouth waits
for us all at the bottom of the page
where overworked demon fauns shovel in flocks of naked nymphs
by the flaming wheelbarrowful, nymph netherparts burst into cabbage roses,
nymph arms plume into feathers . Faun cocks flute into parrots. A camel bagpipes
his rider’s bladder, contorted neck spiraled into an infinity sign. Sex organs morph
into instruments of music and terror. Cackles of pent-up sex and gospel-weary souls
echo through every illumination’s stroke. And I still haven’t recovered my eyes…
And maybe that’s the punchline of these mischievous monks’ little cosmic joke.