Are we not yet
another conglomeration
of degenerates led
by another reincarnation
of what our poets called
the drunken April mold.
*
And am I not just
another victim of an
never-ending lust
a parented orphan
caught in your cell, built
with bricks of guilt
*
And aren’t you still
another mermaid singing
the ode of the kill
a blackbee stinging
me in the face that swallows
and reshapes as follows
*
My eyes become mice
My brows become crows
My ear becomes deer
My voice becomes fear
