(a flip through BRIDE’S)
The silver spoons
were warbling
their absurd musical names
when, drawing back
her veil (illusion),
she stepped into
the valentine-shaped bathtub,
& slid her perfect bubbles
in between
the perfect bubbles.
Oh brilliantly complex as
compound interest,
her diamond gleams
(Forever) on the edge
of a weddingcake-shaped bed.
What happens there
is merely icing since
a snakepit of dismembered
douchebag coils (all writhing)
awaits her on the tackier back pages.
Dearly beloved, let’s hymn
her (& Daddy) down
the aisle with
epithalamia composed
for Ovulen ads:
“It’s the right
of every (married) couple
to wait to space to wait”
—& antistrophes
appended by the Pope.
Good Grief—the groom!
Has she (or we)
entirely forgot?
She’ll dream him whole.
American type with ushers
halfbacks headaches drawbacks backaches
& borrowed suit
stuffed in a borrowed face
(or was it the reverse?)
Oh well. Here’s he:
part coy pajamas,
part mothered underwear
& of course
an enormous prick
full of money.