How you knotted my masculinity,
A season will not tell in full. You feigned
My tangled bowels from their ripened-waxy
Skin and ate them there, mashed them there,
Against your teeth, in merry, wide-eyed,
And left, in wake, my bloody-fiery passion.
There’s still red meat on the bones, here!
Come crows, black birds, red your teeth!
Your deep intestines, stain them with me,
Laugh, caw, and tear in my blunder.
The heart sewn, webbed between my ribs,
Take for it has passed its season.
Body of passion, left to beat then dry,
This carcass of fiery worms, eating away
My fervor; when they have gone into the earth,
To feed the warbler with announcing spring,
They will burn with a nature and a love,
Deep in the belly, with my passion, in the bird.
I gave you my pure soul, you infested woman,
Born from man’s rib of anagogic accord,
The tick of my mind and pulse of my marrow,
Veins in their branching wilds, vines
Of my muscles were yours. What tough
Cartilage might satisfy you in my fetid rot?
And what will become of this masculinity?
When these hands can grasp no more,
Than the imperceptible pacifism of geology?
When this flesh fails back into the rock,
These eyes will stare out, from below the brush,
And the birds will mangle the dirt I have become.