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Peter Magliocco |
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At the Soup Kitchen The flesh of my flesh somewhere far from this scene forgetting the bastard he fathered while a pimp-bouncer in a bordello 18 years ago, his contracted syphilis florid with Sicilian colors of distant lands. Later he'd shoot a man calling him Wop, laying him down with controlled anger some rackets' leaders disdained. I wonder if her saw my own shadow that day in the cold Chicago soup kitchen "Alphonse Capone" sponsored to show citizens his more venerable side; we lined-up shiveringly-smelling a delicious bread counterpointing the blood baths of Gangland where the body's wine gushed into gutters his victims drank with silent tongues. the cells if Mae Capone had been a real mother instead of the anonymous whore whose womb I caterwauled from in feet-first agony, perhaps I'd smile now knowing I belonged with Al's family in "the lavish" Florida mansion forever beyond The Rock I'd later follow him to relive his humbled history there, no gaudy cell-furnishings surrounding him like the Eastern State Penitentiary suite of elegant desk, dark brocaded chairs & nouveau-rich lamps with golden tassels he'd read under (listening to classical radio strains or some New York boxing match?) in a turbulent time when money spoke louder than final cries of Prohibition competitors daring to downsize his breweries, their voices just unorchestrated screams my father never heard except during those long nights in Alcatraz when syphilitic nerve-ends robbed his spirit of its last, opulent cloak-cover. holy cow The golden studio's something Mariel's long exiled from, in timeless oblivion she tries to recall part of her punk life one overcast, smog-ridden L.A. day working her amateur web cam for lust zealots' bourgeois cathedral where erections rise with designer porn, all that bread of orgasmic scintillations she hasn't eaten like real meat for ages & so, practically anorexic, kneels yet invisible to past friends this warm diem (reveling in tacky shades, hot pants plus tanker top & stiletto heels) she years to act again in hellish videos the corrupt pimp-producers banished her from after she became HIV-positive, trapping her 4-ever in a trapezoidal Plexiglas next to a cow's decapitated head She almost worships the missing parts & hugs the very essence of blood-flesh, like herself now an immaterial still life ... |