The staccato stiletto march
of power, now the pearls fly in an arch
while the perfume drizzles from on high.
I am man: the lying lust that
foams to rot.
A pair of hoarse girders.
An empire I am bound to, tied to my first-skin and pulls
into that piss pile of the unperfumed,
Atop the sweet brunette woods and ovarian musk
That swaddled the air at my birth; but not me.
I’m lost like a girl’s mind.
The light would cut clear as man’s crudity.
A pristine transcription, it would distill me
crystal drop by crystal drop.
That is the clarity unreachable from this male coil.
Monstrous meat: inert, inane
palm trees of my legs terrify me
with their infinite weight.
Goddess, from your terrace glorious. Ladies lifting light:
Of zit, pus, phallus, I am too ashamed
to verbalize what I lack.
Sweep me into pink oblivion.
manicure my marauding masculinity to
rosy touch. Beatify me, Saint Sylvia!
These cries, shrill man.
Dreams, where I am the birthing hips
Dreams are all they are.
I wallow on my throne of adamantine oak
Here I am simply, weakly,