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The shrieking stewardesses of doom
penetrate the inner corridors of the buffed
man-palaces of yore and demand
their rightful place in the pantheon of sin.

"Behold!" exclaims the lady in the colander helmet,
"for we are God, and we are Dog!"
The librarian buttering the kittens farts in fright
And sashays away to fetch the tapdancing pickle patrol.

"Stressed desserts!" retorts the studmonkey
in his double-breasted reptile suit from atop the mountain
of sweat-stained bluemovie chapbooks and salami receipts.
"A slut nixes sex in Tulsa!"

The soft armies rage and threaten and clash
in a wet collapse of dogma and swollen organs,
propaganda bursting like sushi roe on the cool tongue
of a perfumed geisha in some Tokyo demimonde.

When the smoke and smegma clears, but one stands
alone: the librarian holds his buttery kittens aloft
and cries, "Accept these fine felines into Nirvana, Lord,
and let us hear the harpy squeals of stewardesses no more!"

 

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