The Shadow Of Your Footsteps

Your yellow feet like Lily Cole’s dialectical unconscious—
Deconstructed with Cubist eyes as your children smile,
Laughing at the shadow of your eyes—
Returning me to your whiteness, your memory
As blocks of sandalwood burn in a sandstone fireplace—
As the latest Japanese earthquake destroys the new world
And truth grows old in the shadows of your gyaru footsteps
And Korean facelifts make everyone look Chinese,
Like Lily Cole in glasses with four square eyes—
34C molded fancy, 34B molded fancy—
Your feet reeking of leather, your ass a symphony of loud, heady farts,
Your overcoat silhouette hiding
Your petite stuffed monkey in XXXL thong,
A giant’s rubber Hunter boots and glass nose,
Macho hangnail wedding dress—
Weed worth millions seized by the cops,
Sometimes I’d like to fuck a stranger that keeps her hat on—
Thank you, God, for tits and sheer black tights on fat girls
And lacy lingerie on skinny girls
And Wolford thigh highs on old blondes in stilettos,
Bursting their white triangles of 34A, 32B and 34A—
She smells like a storeroom, her facelift falling,
Her panties large and flesh colored, yellow and white and pink,
Her bra purple and animal print—
Barefoot like Lily Cole in fishnets on a catwalk with superwomen
And little to no make-up slipping golden toes
Into Pulitzer Prize winning brown loafers,
Painted toes crushed in pointed golden boots, married in suede,
Her calves cross the ocean—
To the rich the poor don’t even exist,
But an artist is a magician because he can make millions out of nothing—
Underwear, women, rock and roll,
Anything with eyes and ears, brunettes and blondes with big noses—
Metal, glass, paper, canvas, paint and ink—