For some usually evil end
I’ll get my Machina up
and poke a hole in the raft
of my dear old Deus Ex

Everything needs poking now & then,
even if it’s God, she says, and proceeds
after my bedded body with an Amish
broomhandle, mad that I’d slept on the couch
again, adrift in a mindless stream 
of Nabokov describing the perfect female
mid-drift, full of sour candy and lint

But it’s art, I say, of the best kind,
one that casts the penis into brine,
one that becomes real in a man’s dream