Is to
Show them your pretty mess
those disasters that stir us
in such inappropriate ways

You are
the dispersion of colors
we cannot see with
our own bare eyes

You are in shambles
a wondrous disarray
of sinful parts

falling apart
being true to You
always wild
and unmistakably free

To be shaped by love, know first
How it destroys.

To know how it destroys,
Recognize love as a physical act.

To recognize love as a physical act,
Consider the body's limits and transgressions.

To consider the body's limits and transgressions,
Probe it for signs of anomaly. Of creatureness.

To probe, start by using your fingers to poke
Regions where illusions are cooked, like the groin.

To locate the groin, slither your hand from mouth
all the way down until you feel dirt.

Once there, dig. The mush will feel soft and wet and grisly
And delicious. Like exile. Feel around for a thin chord.

Once you get your hand on this chord, pull. Pull very hard.
Like you're born to unstitch. Or turn off a light. Or flush.

Your body will split open like a thick *** of paper bills
fresh off a rubber band hug. And your remains

Will flutter like a flag. Notice the bone marrow in bloodspeck
jangling in wind chime language to announce an arrival.

Your arrival, maybe. But what is left other than your body splayed
open? Notice your meatshop bargain delicacy. Limbs as vivid

As a freehand sketch artist's depiction of alive. It sounds so beautiful,
Love. Especially in Springtime.

In the days leading up to my ******,
I saw a message in the form of a tattoo
On the back of this guy I was having *** with.
It was a picture of a skiff too far from its port
Yet not close enough to know for sure whether it was
arriving or beginning to drift away from dock.
When you're having ***, everything is symbolic (?),
so I took this picture as a demonstration, delivered
by kismet or something like it, of the way I seem
to dither between mooring myself to a pair of eyes that see me,
—flesh, not for what it is but for what it could be: sweating animal.
Dangerous animal. Animal to be forgiven—
and escaping, a spray of foam there on the crest
trailing its ebbs and bobs, dispersing
as it ripples and fades flat. I don't know anymore.
Who I am What to be What to like How to dress
Whom to befriend When to use whom What prayers are for If they work.
Suddenly I stop the *** and ask this guy, Why the tattoo?
He turns around, kisses me, fondles me, cups my breast,
almost squeezing, turns me around, penetrates me,
and lets out a moan so sinister it was
nearly love.

My home is in a vintage tin
Belonged to your great grandma
With many other varied breeds
Our cousins sorted into jars

I'm often fastened up tight
In British stiff collared fashion
Occasionally burst off
When shirts are ripped open
In the haste of frisky passion

In my other guise
When I am tapped
I connect you worldwide
My neighbour form words and stories
Whilst I encrypt some code for spies.

Machinery, you really need me
To start and then to stop
To raise alarm bells
And when pressed call the cops

I'm a round reminder
Of how life began
Innie or outie and proud
Of how mum's body nurtured your
In utero life-span

Dangerous in the wrong hands
I must be closely guarded
For if you press me
World war three
Could easily be started