I want a mellifluous chirper.
I want it loud and plump,
I want it flighty, I want to fight it
until it liquefies.
I want its legs long and wings chitlin.
I want it fiddling meat-wild rage
and I want it bad.
When it comes, I’ll be as patient
as outfield grass in winter.
The hairs on my leaves’ll be as loose as
a mum bulb awaiting bees—
as a peat bog awaiting peat hogs.
When it comes, I won’t clamp down
until that scar-pocked coin
turns round in the pitch ocean sky.
Then I’ll snort it fast as blow.
Who cares if I die twice?
I’ll digest every last eye and antenna
before that panting sniffer comes to spray my feet.
I’ll absorb the carnal proteins like Adonis
ogling the red frock on a Greek god’s date
and my high speed, high def snap of jaw
will be your awe-inspiring trauma.
This is all for you.