From the mustache, a moon cloud

On the wide waves of a moustache

appears a question — a blinking pearl inside a conch shell

WHAT will it take? WHEN will it stop? WHO is to blame?

throwing glazed camphor on a trembling lip, I gazed at

a mirrored image in the blue depths of a snow glacier

#MeToo, it said.

a bruised sky scatters shadows on a stone wall where — HA HA —

stone-walling men ejaculate on lurid pink billboards of busty sirens

who pout pink lips while sucking an index finger

What next?

on the other side of the question sat a bare-breasted crone

she said

“Feet on red hot bricks get scalded.

But

before the scabby wounds dry,

pickle his penis, put mustard on his head and deliver his probing hand

into the cement mixer of a virgin’s scorched vagina.”

thus saying

she disappeared into a moon cloud