i know nothing of you

but that you are anthropological
when you are inside unexplored diversities
that are not plums or peaches,
that you are a white siren with red nails  
and that you want my knickers
sent enveloped, and sealed with
plastic cobalt kisses.


i know nothing of you

but that when they say poets are not in season;  
you pluck me out lime-coloured and prematured
and tell me to ripen beside your afternoon tea
because you demand embryonic words
and pretty phrases that will keep you
animated and high.


you make me know not-

ions are unmarried clouds pregnant with ink;
yours are metabolic and invisible,
injecting sugar into my fallopian tubes.
you press your mouth against my sternum
and interweave your tongue with my heart,

                                                      we mould into a double helix.


you make us into nothing

but a genetically mutated flower
with two vulvas, collapsed between two pages
of a book that a ***** slapper would read
in the rain at two ams in between
****** acts and neon sunsets.