So I wrote a cycle of haikus about Prince. They are dedicated to Tipper Gore, without malice.
She fucked me, my sis
I’m pretty sure she meant to
See, I was budding
He and I could share
You used to wear all my robes
Please put down the phone
A coliseum
Chill winds, thrown trash; they want Stones.
Old phallic idols
Flicker’s a pretext
I got one thought, ten digits
Bet you got some too
Monogamy? Well
Let’s drive uptown – you caught red
I adore fascists
Couldn’t stop myself
I might be a low-down toad, but
He’s wearing the horns
Giant platform shoes
Tiny man, cicada-sized
Were you insecure?
Let’s fake sincere, let’s
Fuck the bass out of our mouths
Consummate, sleep late
Utubed weepy doves;
Prince’s creepy outstretched hand
Beckons…but to where?
Nikki thumbs, sweat-slick
She dug the lobby but not
The PMRC
Sue, Sheena, Sheila,
Vanity, natch; they sated,
For a few seasons.
She wore scant vintage
Old man curses indolence
Raspberry sorbet
Freshly washed hair
Slender fingers muss, console
Maybe we’ll get hitched
Music, not your God
Cleft us then. Revolution
Spat out its mamas.
A sign of the times:
Fiery armageddon
Becomes funky jam
Street of scattered glyphs
First forms thunder then blossoms
You, horny pony.
King Mob, Roi Ubu
Party like a harlequin
Fire scars painted face
Black marks on my cheek
I sweated on pyramids
The water’s cold now
The lech in winter
“Best since” always yet to come
Myth subsumes the man.
Back to the World 