Mona Lisa

They stole you from the night:
the faceless ones, whose long arms
reach angrily into nowhere
(whilst even the least of junkies
in sanctity crucifies us).

What love St. Teresa is,
her saintly hot cunt
pissing ecstatically
with Christ’s every coming.

For if all truth in this world
could be measured in blow jobs
        sheer beauty of your tongue
        chattering its pleasure
        down my hardened lust
then politics alone
dictated your return to us
(two days, no more,
thy window burned red again).

Now you are back,
blown eastward
by the vagaries of chance;
sleeping the sleep of all secret buddhas,
their unrevealed passions
slaying our egos with the emptiest of hands.

How tiny your nipples are;
beholding their tautness,
my Pietà discovers itself.