Virtual Eunuch feat. Nicki Minaj

By Brian Sonia-Wallace

On this midnight birthday
Daybirth afterbirth afterhours
Untz untz
Womp womp womp
We gather here
In the rosy afterglow of the bomb
To bear witness to the death of sex

This is a eulogy

Not the birth of the next messiah
But the elimination of the procreative tools that create pros,
Who create prose
Prison and palace and reverberation
Auto erotic asphyxiation of the NEXT BEST THING

How do you make art in the Age of Nicki Minaj?

Stich together wings from the holy foreskins of a thousand dead poets
To soar too close to the sun
He who was living is now dead
We who were living are now dying
Fuck fuck fuck
That superbass

Or some approximation
My memory fails me
Have we made love before?
Or did we just make some really sick beats?
I remember it was Transformers: Age of Extinction
And you were Michael Bay, mother of robots
Cradling tender explosions between your thighs

I asked:
Would you blow me?
Nothing.
How about if Shia LeBouf was watching?
Voyeurism is participation, you know
So every monologue is an orgy
Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hands too much
Which mannerly devotion shows in this
For saints have hands that pilgrims hands do touch
And palm-to-palm is fap fap fap fap!
Sploooooooooooge!

The death of sex is not the death of pleasure, oh no
Our lovemaking starts with Just Do It
Proceeds to I’m Lovin’ It
And ends at the checkout line
$4.99
Today’s Combo: le petit morte
The little death and the apocalypse

I get my orgasms from curly fries
At 2 am when I’m high with my headphones on
Getting road head on the way to fast food
Sex died
In the drive-through
Between ‘can I help you’ and ‘you’re welcome’

Car stereo says
“I believe that life is a prize
But to live doesn’t mean you’re alive”
Nicki Minaj is killing it
But then the car you’re sucking my dick in turns into a Decepticon and blows her up
There’s blood and blondes and robots everywhere
Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuck
Castration 2.0
And the erosion of our erections is matched
Only by the mechanization of our minds

As sex dies
Eggs and sperm pass their shelf life
To be thrown out in the dumpster behind the diner
We strip off these labels, homo, hetero, omi, a,
(we’re going to recycle the cans!)
We stamp new labels
Across the stars
In the Parental Advisory font
Labels that say ‘post-sexual’

When sex is just a post-script
As obsolete as the post office
Posted up just chillin, not going anywhere for nobody
Leaking out of the ever-tighter boxes we find ourselves squeezed into
Like straight jackets
But FABULOUS
So gay jackets, yellow jackets
With glittering stingers and a thirst for the postmodern critique
Sex, God, and the author are all dead
So what’s left?

The lonely messiah wanders in the Wasteland
Makes out with the sand
Straps his wings on but doesn’t have the energy to flap them
Imprisoned as he is in his reverberating palace
Three rocks from the sun
Reach out for our messiah
Across this blasted land
Try to affix your lips to his holy D
Whisper deconstruction in his every orifice

But all your Foucaultean aphrodisiacs
Are no match for his ennui
For his wee wee.

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