The Unstrung Harp

beyond the gates of heaven, the top brass must be fondling secretaries,
the unstrung harp is strumming in the heretic’s uterus.
the clock radio at her bedside has gone haywire
or so says the neurologist putting out for nightline.
it leaves an infant king on her shoulder each night
and an unready sweetness in her small lamb womb.
could be weird science delivering government sunsets to an accident with
microwaves,
young, holy nymphette dream in polaroids of white noise worships all silken and
breathy…
am/fm pastor zaps antenna congregates,
the seventh caller wins a free first orgasm.
second prize is one of those stupid electric toothbrushes.
little radio pops knobs, made bullets in the middle of a ball game,
wouldn’t an immaculate conception,
fry all of the circuits in a ten dollar radio shack junker?
what makes these creatures' chests to heaving?
that’s some reception they’ve got down there,
for a miracle from the ionosphere
to gently land just below the low slung bible belt.