The beginning feigns my favorite parrot:
tall, feathered boys preen together, get romantic,
stand talking in high vices and low kisses.
Later, they stuff aches backwards as they recite
phallometry. The boys’ utter pandemics con
the west. Feigned pouts pour young lecherousness as
ravens. Heat smothers hands and weak feathers,
and they run away. After all of this
trouble, masklings atone in tendrils.
Upshot? Propagate the beach, upstarting. Battle the ocean
sands, then sting fat, jealous jellyfishes. Knots braid
bathers unjustly. Lost, they’re tiles, awash, always confusing
40 blows against theatrical porn. Crows & macaws
know insolence; “french kismet” means to praise eggshell.
FULFILLMENT SONNET 2
A disgraceful fate haunts passive-aggressive geniuses.
Any woman’s red painting is artful stress, candid. If
she goes to the spawning whiskey, what motherly sprawling! People in whiteout
walk about the plaza, their sinews are fountains, everyone grinds kyriarchy.
I hit something, but the waiter’s juiciest theremins brightly comb
soft meals. To cure butter, ignore lonely seemliness; to get healthier,
disband gnostic anemones. See every sick asshole cave to the enclave,
their britches branding the slick ropes. Guilty sexual consciences
spill out sand; this improvised timer justly thwarts butterballs. For once, woman
is getting gold. Inspiration drives uphill, but her
prosthesis despair is niche. Useless guilt inside the sorrow of banal art,
repentantly. Important art has important air and very
dishonest abdomens. An embargo destroying the scree: sexism, ego, forearm.
Woman’s confession of painting and rot.