YOU CAN CALL ME HIBISCUS
You know, there’s a clit at the tip of my dick.
The size of a clementine seed. She’s a silent swan;
That blooms when buzzing men be honey high /
Sweet ‘n low. She’s more conniving than a plum
Bursting under the clavicle. You probably fell into her
Whistle one night. When my mouth was a quiet ear
Listening like a storm drain. It must be heartache
To speak my instrument with rapture, slaughter
A song you can’t stop singing, revel at how majestically
Bile my pollen must be–yet still want to touch my stamen.
See, here you are, groveling like sunrise. Legs turbulent
With no ethanol to blame this touch. Can’t you hear her
Symphony dancing before us? The spaces = your doubt.
The line breaks = her hymen, learning men all over again.
Her penultimate period = Me, torn ajar. You, fairytale.
Us going, gone gone
GIRLS JUST WANT TO BE GIRLS
There is no leaving here,
but I just want an hour please.
Air is the saucy McGriddle
I massage my molars with
on misty morns. I suck full
on crying clouds & boiled
foliage while the cupboards
stay depressed. The marble
of me is catching jaundice.
Adult roots orphan like crispy
crushed ice in tomato juice.
Relief is drenching milky walls
with sticky moans when days
ache like aluminum. The crust
of my knees want to be a thotty
leaf for just a lil’ while—a blink
of wind. Open the butter jar
& feel a man’s elephant heat
melt my foggy lips to blues.
But sticky spring girls don’t
hold shattering like I do.
Their twizzler limbs shine
like fresh plaster & I got ashy
barrels where spiders nest.
Screaming peels of glass don’t
whisper my name how I like it.
The cemetery tissue lingers
around my tight nipples
like jammed Hershey kisses.
They do not pucker
like sizzling marigolds in March—
pollen comes to die here. There
is no honey on this here scenic
route—just mud and tingling
clay. I want to fuck a man’s want
there one day. I want melons
that will turn his pitchfork into
a burning dew. Open my gnawing
stomach an unbled California
Forest, plant the dead of him
to the button of me. Whitney’s
Greatest Love of All round
my breasts while my pound
cake rise with marvelous cause.
I know my aging bitch is showing
through my slit the way I yearn
in gauzy sheaths, scouring
like a pussy on a clothesline.
But the thought burrows in
my uvula anyway. I want to
be a spongy hospital, to raise
buoyancy from the plump
of my sky. I want to flood
with sour & sex & surrender
& child. I want to study
of mercy & tribute & earth &—
FIRST DAY JOB INTRODUCTION
|My name is:||Father's Severed Foreskin or [Insert Sir Name].|
|My nickname is||______________|
|My pronouns are||They \ 'tHā \ ; Them \ (th)əm \. Possessive, singular, & plural; complex to English speakers stuck with conquering taste buds.|
|Languages I speak||Autobiography.|
|My favorite colors are||Pale crimson burning at 6:45 in the evening & pollen powdered on daylilies during Mother's Day benediction.|
|I was born||Between the bridge of incisors.
During a quaking apostrophe between should & not.
At the corner of coffee drunk uterus & piss stained Kmart floors.
|I grew up||By daybeds where wood pulp, bound, sleeved, & shelved, wreaked of Wawa stains and cocoa butter grease; where the mulch left the playground, the sidewalk's precipice stretched for miles, the wild wild animals rumbled nests under my fingertips.|
|My favorite book is||My twin brother's thread tags from Salvation Army.|
|Soundtrack of my life||“A fucking faggot Nigga”, “Verse, Nigga”, “Finesse a Nigga”, “Not that Nigga to fuck”, “Pussy Nigga”, “My Nigga", “Nigga with hard R”,“Still Nigga”|
|I want to learn||How to be my mother's wedding dress; all trimmed lace & sheer feather dusted in selenite. A decadent skin my Grannie seals in vacuum plastic for company. A glasshouse view of blud blooming before me.|