Sally Wen Mao

after Alexander McQueen


In our slime tryst, you opened
the webbing of my hose,
scattered white flour on my legs.                       

Under the hood, you cracked
the couture boning
of my gown, and the pangs



that spilled forth made me pass out.
An opulent coma, for I dreamt
of ancient contraptions: whip,

bulwark,                           strap-on
glowworm, blackening
your cephalopod lung.



Bioluminescence betrayed us,
my love. To live this hoodwinked
dream, bedeviled knees,

why, I’d give any tank of fuel, truss
or trigger. A bride of plunging
necklines will lose her dolor



in our indecent space, where girls
dress in holograms, X-rays, torn
chiffons. I grow my spine from chic

roadkill. But you, lover, mostly nude,
wear a rust-belt gaze, saliva-
matted fur,  pansexual shockwave.






Line for McQueen exhibition, August 6th, 2011: Central Park to Met steps to European Wing to Chinoiserie. 5.5 hours. "Highland Rape," bird ladies, Orientalism, paint-splattered ladies, stilt-crippled ladies, balsa wood. Feet throbbed. Questions abounded