To Read a Surrealistic Poem

a poem about star-cozy suicides, fireworks in cold religion,
and the train in one’s
apartment that grows
far away places
that smell like women
with snow on them.
You see each
line is about
childbirth, the scream of it
and how it burns
history like a girl
with flammable lipstick
who draws a black cat
in crayon on a knife.
One must remember
to feel the edge
of each neon word,
lap up its sacred discharge.
Now smoke a pipeful of yellow jackets. Their quivering
mathematics in the honeycomb
of one’s lungs
sings of everything
one’s been told about
keeping house and reruns.
Does one believe
God or Mia Farrow?
There once were extraordinary
women in a state of grace
with Twiggy eyeliner
and combat boots.
They had philosophical
fistfights and dipped
scrotums in their milk.
Wrote poems about
turning the world
over and over and over.
Poems about Hurricane Vagina, the Girl with Magic Seeds.