If I told you her hips
were full of the forest,
would you think she
a Latin trans stripper?
Sitting like this,
she feels not like a womon
but a stereotypical
flamboyant gay male,
age 32,
robust in such a way
that does not scream
"beetle" to those at the gym.
She is turgid (being in a swollen
state- wearing nothing but a
taut and firm, gleaming
sword- spontaneously orgasming
and dripping into lovers’ throats,
a hot whipped cream corset
(It’s sexy).
She moves with an
arcadic kind of fire
over bicycles and
everyone talks about her
on Karaoke night,
outside of 7Eleven
around the ping-pong table
and she’s feeling
a bit like something
lost in the mail.
She has resorted to sitting
in washing machines on Saturday nights
mixing into scope of seeing
holograms of ink and
extra large headphones.
is scraping up now-
the misconception of hands-
touching feet as a form of love
asking to get her
Virgin Mary back-
that the
Renaissance fish-bowl
surrounding her head
represented her attempts
to test the boundaries of
a greyish-pink sky
(sermons delegated to bones,
she digresses to nonsensical identity
and morphs.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
1 comment:
I worry you're not going to have enough good poems to fill your chapbook.
Fake-out!
I really like how your work can be so silly--not at all dark or ominous, say--and at the same time full of "realistic" emotional urgency.
Post a Comment