‘This is the rupture of heart…’
Only a surgeon could see how to operate so well on me.
This is the intricate pain, come dissecting my frog hurt again.
Eros is clinically bold, and a professional, totally cold.
where I, frog, lurk, waiting for a divine arch
to spark the dog in me.
In me fight tedium, odium,
banal canals of waste; light, I squat and
Slight rape forgiven? Dear God of Frogs:
Please goad, load me,
take my slippery smoothness, flippery foolishness away.
A way must be sound: I am wrapped in myself,
trapped in myself. My froggy self longs to produce, create;
but no, I seduce, berate.
Berate me, Tricolored Frog:
Light whose waste product is air, help me,
for as I sit and soak, I croak, I croak.
Top of Form: Spectrum Sells Out
Ah, schweinherz, remember when we used to make love beneath skies of angled light, brighter than cerulean sandpaper? The grass, dripping emeralds, did not crumble; even the pissant leaves, dying brown, stretched like the refracted rubber of your brightly piqued (inaudible)
Penis, vaginal miner!
Your wife with my husband:
CIS BOOM TRANS
within a girl, the neurons whirl
that way. You secretly want me
in your toilet, badly; I can be your
mom and dad. What kind of nurture
will my nature bring? Call me a
curio for you, my inflections an
enticement, my infections to be
damned. Transman, what I have
to be to be myself, what I posit
out of the closet, the closed can’t
know, nor understand.
‘An old red tree…’
who lusts for wide wet summer,
tries to plant a seed.