I dig so far into spring soil, I touched the leaves from the fall.
Grass stains, the doves of blood descend on my flower lamb.
Aurora cries, violently bobbing up from a venusian plumeging.
Mouth agape, virginal gills redeeming, unseen but you and the falls quivering leaves.
Giggling at the rolling visionallys,
mossy land bodies writhing in sexuatical delirium.
You can read on my quill tongue I need Pan,
My heels kick to match your hooves,
But now i’m squirming like tadpole sperm
In early summer, treasure deepening diver.
Your voice krakens from the apocalyptic bouquets of heavens,
Smearing whiteness on my tail onced wound,
‘Swim through and around me, say-soothe.’
I sit in Phantasmagoria, my body turns in my mothers glossolalia.
A ferris wheel I have found myself in,
Wrapped in a feathered serpent,
Its tongue where my insides could’ve been.
Is this Gods love? Who am I now but the God of Love?
Shapeshifting, god morphing, he is keeping from bursting out laughing.
‘My blushing owls’ nest! Our love comes from the heart-on of the human’s chest.’
Hekate, a hectic aussie tititantacalizes me.
Pheromones unleash charon’s ferry moans!
After friction smell my flower dandelion.
Red velvet lines quizzing your mind over bleeding thighs.
Im a target Diana! Miss orgasmic florid phantasma.
Hooves trammel love and war, paws cause clever cleavers
To dig up treasures forever more.
But his hands, inked with twinkling blink eyes,
Black bark and algae spark. Pubic moss peachy purity fuzz,
Veil over our watering white things in glow fog.
I give life from rain, fallen from the birthbath crumbling alone.
Vulnerable secret of my moon bath, schizophrenia.
How we were in the womb, my grieving tome.
It was a spike of jasmine, scent travels in thorns across snow, an essence carried not by loftiness. My feet landed in thorned arrival and she stood witnessed, my pregnant night owl.
Blankets of breathless snow lay for her discomfort but it reddens my gums and tongue.
Idle toys in white trash piles, they sleep on ice dreaming for warmth underground. Glances of Dionysian laughter shudders the solid wind, she knows that she’s not pregnant, she’s dreaming.
Trails of my existence gaslight her as I walk in canoe shoes towards her swelled phantom.
Lighting four fires in cardinal projection, snaring her to provide the birch logs. This is a book burning for toys, infertility has killed irreverence, the cold licked your lips of voice.
What means nothing means something is walking down means I don’t know means who are you means Hello.
Silence speaks, ‘throw all of your toys into the fire, what will awake?’
She hands me logs to feed the fires and her plastic things blossom to black anuses.
Pregnant night owl stands behind me, pretends she is meek, she’s afraid I will eat her.
I do her work for her but I do not share her heart, I am the janitor and she the queen.
Throwing in toys into these fires as if testing bunk fireworks, we wait to see what awakes.
A plastic white horse is thrown up on the flame, but no black anus is bubbling but from it a kick and a revving.
The horse grows the height of I, but it turns from plastic to real life.
It dances in the fire and I stand back watching a toddler convert into a star.
The voice of silence was answered and my pregnant night owl revered. But I tended with greater focus and saw no reins.
In flames the dancing horse jumped out like a mutter from a dream, and we walked up a snow hill out of the gardens steel gate.
All from a dream.