even the haters will pay to hold their nose at a halftime show

In the language of flowers // I am the one who says // fuck you 

I won't be anyone's nosegay // this Mary is her own // talking bouquet 

 

never let a man speak for you or call you // what he wants // I learned that 

the hard way // amorphophallus titanum // it sure sounds pretty in a dead tongue 

 

except it's Latin for big ugly dick // I mean I am // but what an asshole scientist 

I prefer to think of myself // & this may sound vain // as a goddess 

 

cadaver dressed in drag // my stage name // Versace Medusa 

part Lilith part calla lily // keep your heteronormative birds & bees // give me 

 

the necrophiliacs // the freaks the meat-eating // beetle & flesh fly 

there I go again allies // getting all hot & bothered // being vulgar 

 

vulgar meaning common // as when something is below you // like a girl 

forbidden to say fuck // it makes a woman sound so common // oh come on 

 

that's all you expect from a flower // to be likeable // but to keep it raw & 100 

is to be abhorred // fine but even the haters will pay // to hold their nose 

 

at a halftime show // they'll claim they are beyond Beyoncé // sick of Selena 

yet they can't look away from the Live Cam // no one wants to miss // the showgirl 

 

as she breaks through the cake // unhooks her lingerie // La Virgen de Guadalupe 

with a twist of Santa Muerte // what in the hell is she wearing // glad you ask 

 

death is the new Christian Dior // the latest Chanel is corpse smell // I am the week-old 

ham hock whore of horticulture // I bring the hothouse haute couture // & I always come

 

in last place // dressed to the nines I get what I want // which is to be The Tenth Muse 

Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz // little Evita de Buenos Aires // screwing & screwing over 

 

los descamisados on my Rainbow Tour // fuck Whitman Fuck Pound / give me Emily D 

speaking of which have I ever told you daddy // only sun gods get me hard // you want it 

 

I got it // let me show you how a chola really leans // mother nature may wear floral 

 but I ain't your mama // I thirst like Betty Boop at peak coquette // Marilyn Monroe 

 

blowing in an air vent // say Malinche say Truvadawhore // give me more 

I thrive in shade // my throat is my throne so // queen me bitch 

 

[Benjamin Garcia, 'Ode to the Corpse Flower', from Thrown in the Throat]