The Exquisite Corpse home archives submit black market comrads hot sites search
The Exquisite Corpse - A Journal of Letters and Life
Edited by Andrei Codrescu
ec chair poetick kultur anti-amthropomorphism
gallery zounds the making and unmaking of person
new economics of late capitalism
diaries and memoirs translation and her retinue
working class sweat
the corpse reads classics letters the book of revelations and epiphanies
the making and unmaking of person
The New Economics of Late Capitalism

Mohammed X Goes Mex
by Miranda Joan Howe

You are here.
X marks the spot
Sex makes it hot.
Map the XXX
Anatomy of a Porn Project/
Idiotic sacrifice for Allah.
Believe this:

Fire burns good boys
And good girls same as bad.
Bad fire burns good fire
Every day of every fire week.
Burn baby baby burn.
Hunka hunka hunk
Of fire fire fire.

Come now mr cool,
Lay your butter wouldn't
Tongue on me, Real
Cool. Ice. Real nice.
Melt it twice.
Keep it cool man cool.
Just cooler than cool, daddy O.

Baby baby I can't sleep
Got the wide awake
The bolt upright blues.
The stand up, stood up,
Shook up, stiff upper lip,
Sent up, set up, shut up.
Low down, tore down,
Git down, downtown,
Down home, Goin down
Lay down and die blues.

I'm so broke these are
Secondhand blues.
As such they stink of
Humanity. Stink of
Immortality that copies
Its bouquet from an amoral
Flowering of womankind
Along the banks of the earth river
Where floweth all things terrible
And all things wonderful alike.

And my name was fire.
I was unbrandable.
I was the all drunk sea.
Salt sea salt sea salt sea.
Salt of the earth, land and sea.
She shall she shall she shall
Not be a prostitute and not
Sell she sell she sell she.

He shall seize all seize all seize all
Once I seize all says the blind
Genghis Khan at Gandhi's court martial
(my god they killed him)
Beat the drum beat the drum
She's all she's all she's all
Remembering the old days of
Crossed t's and dotted third eyes
Beat the drum slowly
Slowly pay the piper lowly
Don't mention the fire
And it burns all the same.

Denial too is kith and kin
Is lose and win
Is doubly twin
Flipper and fin
Is fuel and food
Like almost a 25/7 mart.
Well oil well is a deep subject
Saudi Arabian subjects
Will tell you sew buttons
On your burka porno's not
In style oh style oh style oh.
That ain't burkin get your
Chicks for free sex.
I want my El Jazeera.

At last the call cometh!
"Suicidal fools for imaginary virgins
Suicidal fools for imaginary virgins
Suicidal fools for imaginary virgins"
And the salad of paradise is
Wilted like dime store lettuce
Under the klieg lights of universal
Fascism that convenes in the lust
And gluttony of western
Intentions and innocence.
Cameras cameras cameras
Gag it down, little one,
Your little chip of fascist simpleism.
Your swiglet of wine
Your taste of blood cut
From the silent throat of
Freedom Tsk tsk.

Clean up on aisle what?
Oh yes. The aisle in the
Goin to the chapel
Here comes the bride of
Frankensense and myrrh.
The bribe of frankensence
For the groom of Bagdad.
Broom of Bagdad clean up
On aisle of O nevermind...

(The cold hearted bastard
On temple mount.
Soldiers killing rock
Throwing boys!
The idea! The very idea!)

The fire and the hatred
Lashing up the aisle of the
Jet liner big old jet black eye
Liner painting the whore's eyes
And it'd give you pimps a
Black eye if they unveiled
The black eyes and broken hard
Structures like steel girders
And beams upholding civil
Temples of world coinage
Where change is gonna come.

And in the wind speaks again
The sickness: "Suicidal idiots
For unreal women. Suicidal
Idiots for unreal women."
Such contagion.
Such ignorance festering.
And then the student dead.
Death's apprentices.
With their murdered guests.
And death teaches
Only death.

To hell with your paradise,
Mohammed. I'll go to Mazatlan.
Or Kokamo. Or to look at
Nikita's summer palace.
There are other things
To do in death than hang out
With a bunch of homicidal
Ghosts who rape for god.

What if some angelic voter
Rose from within our own
Unangelic disenfranchised selves
And we cast our lot with peace,
Fly to the side of every bomb
Before it's made,
And shush the scream of
Every deep wounded lunatic!
What what? What answer other
Than no more fucking bombs!
Oh happy day!
Hence no blood no ambulence
Hitched to politic's dark star.

What if some one showed our
Fetid hero that love is always
Love and never cruel?
What if they gave a shekinah
Whore and no one came?
What if the whore of babylon
Took off her burka and she
Rubbed the little boy's shoulders
Weighted by worlds. What if
She soothed his insulted soul
And sang away his vengeful urges?
Well then there'd be no fucking
Bomb no fucking fucking bomb.

And I could lie down in my bed
And I could rise up like the day
And we all could heal wounds
And weapers could all weap, weap away
And fear could lie in its own silly tomb
And plot only its own glorious doom
And death could stop trying
To live among the living.




home archives submit black market comrads hot sites search ec chair peotick kultur anti-amthropomorphism
new economics of late capitalism gallery zounds the making and unmaking of person
diaries and memoirs translation and her retinue
the book of revelations and epiphanies working class sweat
the making and unmaking of person the corpse reads classics letters

©1999-2004 Exquisite Corpse.
Site design by Compulsive Creations.