TIMOTHY LIU

What The Magdalene Saw

This fat cum pig more than eager to drop
his five spot in my lap, perhaps another
twenty in some motel-by-the-hour mopped
up with Clorox wherever strangers spurt

on thread-bare sheets to shroud a beat-up
mattress scarred with tiny cigarette burns
as towel-wrapped lunchtime gents line up
outside the door--peccadilloes that turn

into another unsafe orgy grope fest sans
culottes, Cheri, mais toujours avec le petit
mort said the enormous married hard-on
looking to unload inside a room complete

with real-time chat, myself a dirty whore
nailed down by some chubby bear I abhor.

The Marriage

Tons of suicide rock hauled away
from Bridal Veils Falls--a couple's

bones embedded in the mud--water

upriver diverted to a trickle after
we had finished taking our belated

honeymoon. Such detritus floating

to the surface of a laboratory beaker
with trousers down to your ankles

nothing like that swab jammed up

my urethra--all eyes in that waiting
room fixed on the History Channel.