Your ***** is funky
Dripping nectar like fine wine
Your ***** is thick
Fine hairs, crazed and divine

Your ***** don’t taste like water
It smells like a grown woman do
Your thighs are black
And slick with dew

Your ***** looks fuzzy
Your thighs do too
Razors don’t show it love
And chub rub burns it like glue

Your ***** ain’t pink
It ain’t petite
Its quite fat
Your ***** still pretty

Not that you needed affirmation of that fact

If I could impregnate myself with my tears
My children would be innumerable and divine
Delicate as the lilacs at my feet
And as giving as my mothers hands

My children and I would dance wildly to the sound of the shaking leaves
And laugh until we cried at the absurdity of the decaying frames of the eternal surrounding infrastructures

I would gather our collective tears and water my children
Careful to sift the salt and reserve just enough for future implantation

My babies would nest in the tight curls of my crown and I would rock them to sleep in the gentle curve of my lashes
Blinking slowly and steadily to ease the restlessness of their being

If I could birth my children from my ear
I’d rest my head on a pillow and never leave
I’d rest my head flat on the soft surface
Turning my head only slightly to the left to give a final shake
Releasing my babies from their sack

I’d let them snuggle against my cheek as I sang to them the songs of the old Gods
And the new
I’d warm them with heat of my breath and nourish them with the saliva of my tongue
I’d listen intently to their soft whispers inquiring about the beams of light seeping through the cracks of the walls
And
The vines sprouting through the floor boards and climbing pillars on the bed

If I could birth my children from the scrapings from under my fingernails
I’d tear at my flesh until there was nothing left but raw nerve and blood
I’d dress them in gowns made from the weaved patches of hair growing across my mons *****
And I’d make them sun hats from the shattered pieces of my toe nails

If I could sink into the soil and grow my babies from my decay
I’d sprout a row of sunflowers
And the many seeds in its ***** would be my youngins
They’d fall away one by one
Matured
And run off uninhibited into the spring

Little pieces of me
Drowning in the sunshine
Free

Ever been inspired beyond words?
Awed by the sunlight?
Licked delicately by the rain?
Breathed in deeply the sour green of the grass?

Ever plunged your fingers deep into a bin of beans?
Ran your fingers through hay?
Cried out under the stars?
Laughed at the wrong moment?
Or released with the wrong lover?

You are every ***** little tantalizing feeling ever.
You are the tingle deep in my bones.
You are burning me from the inside and I was naive enough to try and banish you with antacids.

You are that addictive feeling and I'm not sure that I can rid you
Or that I want to

We are a nasty little triffle
Yang and yang
We are the wrong side of the bed
We are Fire and air

We are poison
We are detriment
We are bound
I am bound
I am happy
You are my devil
You are sin
And I am your sin eater

And I will eat
And eat
And eat
Until we are both clean
Of each other

Sometimes I forget that I am a poet until I meter lost dreams into sonnets or I burn eggs into soot and draw out long lines in the pan

I forget that my fingers, though long and clumsy, routinely drum delicate cadences across the hard smooth surfaces of tables and door handles or even the soft hilly bits of flesh and fat

I forget the way that my teeth click and grind or the way that my toes dig and scratch into the rough patches under my feet

And the sound it makes

Or the rattle of my breath as I stomp and the room shakes
I forget that line that I inhale with smoke and exhale in contempt

I forget about the crunching of scratching and the rustling of shifting limbs
I forget about the restlessness in my palms and the sloshing of rough skin when they meet to make warmth  

I forget about the words spoken under my breath when my eyes have glossed over and my thought are darting across islands

I forget about the tangibility of my shifting whims and the sounds that they make as they make their homes in the walls around me
And the residual letters that shed from the carcassed corners of whims left for dead


Sometimes I forget because I am fickle and absent
Sometimes I just forget…
But then I remember
That I am a poet