Sexydhatu

Sexydhatu was a heart-shaped mandala
All labia quivering inside
Rock hard balls and ballsack on the outside
On a stalk of towering dick
Pointed at the universal nadir
Inside the walls were black cherries stacked up high
Pickled in Drambouie and pinned
With golden needles
No germs permitted, only the fairest fishy
Sauce and cum allowed to swim alone
Not all could enter, only a few emerged
Children of a fantastic game of chairs
Whoever could sit and own this yoni
Whoever could live and thrive, or perchance
Even monetize the Dhatu,
Had to wear a stylish lanyard around their necks,
Ceramic flags with dots and bars
On special lapels of Italian silk
They had to bear credentials of middle-class
Madness and denial
That would have represented
Generations of boozing and token affairs,
And exult in the brilliance of human fauna
Sustained by rot of cultural agonies.
They came, they fucked, they conquered four dignities
And left when the king died
Of massive organ failure.
They called it heart of sadness when
It was their own history,
The collective metagenetics of addiction
Abuse, lies and self-deception.
Somewhere out of all of this
The sun shines on without preference
This and the only Father and Mother
Gurus, are sexy still.