There is a dance they do in their pens;
words writhing pantless and panting when
I take feelings by their flaccid necks
and balm them into reality,
dropping from palm to page vagrant needs
to wander into my readers’ wombs.
These spat seeds devoured by Saturn
are not wept, but creep like slow children
out ’my mouth’s pregnancies from the backs
of their hermit caverns, silently.
Inside of me there rooms a mighty
congress willow-bent on breaking its tomb.
Blackfaced infantry loading their pens,
my loyal cartridges long condemned
fire conjugal lightning in wet sparks
to the floor of their delivery’s
bloom, sighing breaths of swollen readi-
ness my “Flowers of Evil” consume.