BEE BUTTS CRY
Nerve trash dominate the wrold.
Nerve trash dominate the world.
Nerve trash dominate the world.
They floow the sun and make nerve seedlings for you to eat.
Nervelings are full of omega 3 fatty acids and protein.
Is it because we have two eyes that we can only see two things?
Because I am alive that I am the measure of all things?
Then it is time to die.
I mustn’t think too much. Silence is worth more than a pretty tinkling urine charm
made of petroleum
and more than what I can say about any one of my brilliant mothers
under whom I writhe and cry out my written memories given to me by boys.
Almost done, I would like to make this line reach the edge of the page to manifest destiny, where the shore of no page will lap at the edge of poetry feet
scaly feet with pores underneeth each scale
holding up the giant exposed spinal cord of the gigantic nerve ring.
I keep beckoning for you to jump through the nerve ring.
You are a tiger with a mane and the face of a monkey.
Angel are small and have no front teeth.
Purely rational being are close in size to the potato
and are replete with microbe and worm ring.
In the night I curl up in your tasty meat.
A woman body is a angel factory.
In the afternoon after class I come home turn on the tube when I relax into shiny shiny squares of children singing. I remember that someday my cat will die.
I cry into the mouths of exploited angel. Each pore of my body blubber open and try to grow teeth. All the boys in my choir have your nerveface. Boys within my boy
all the boys in my body like speshul snowflake.
Boys have clitorises like pygmy seahorse because they are pygmy seahorse.
Whole angel bodies cover in boiling blister.
In the night I am a sprawling sea coral
inch long cherubs wrap from my sponge nerves.
Somehow I, a burned mummy, am responsible for war.
Into the toiletplant I water.
Hair water flutters in the bet.
I water my mouthplant.
Mouthplant water the meatplant.
Nourishment from the mouth water swum up the stalk to the anal cavity plant.
Plant speak is not like the color green or the smoothness of budding stalk.
Plant speak is the startled nerve ending in the halved molar.
Illegitimate ghost babees fall gently from plant lips.
How can I disappear and love you all at once?
The ghost buds whisper and scream like gout.
The drying leaf grandmother wraps her wilted ovaries around your crown.
No, I unfurl into a carpet no, I rip into a tent a trench no, I twinkle all leafy labes in the breeze and watch as you are eaten by a beautyful wild animal,
a watch… one icy jagged moment then nothing I realize the green mitosis of the homemadebomb miracle kicking within.
So sad and happy, forever new mummy of a green peter pan bodice.
All the music of the plant mater and meat plant mater making the world so fat, fat as enormous infant seal stung by million of bees.
I climb the long stalk of peter pan anticipating the giant’s salt and pepper spray.
Inside every magic stalk is the potential for disease.
I invite the bodies of not yet butterlies to drill holes in me
to fatten their bodies and eventually so they may fall through the synthy air of me.
Tiny angels, tie me to the post.
Light the match.
Fuse the tomb.
Roll the stone.
Cue the holey ghost.
My tail shortens.
I must be