Deluge of wasps swarm. Their storm sound is huge.
When I feel hot, I flip a lid. It stops.
Complicit in your own misuse I rouge
your twinge, cum-cake your ache. I have the top’s
need for chaos in love. Though wasps flock
when touched I derange, let love bludgeon
me to confess: like witches and warlocks
my art comes from dark flame. In a garden
always in decay, where bile-born insects
swarm, go find choke-cherries. In the temper
and the tantrum find what gets you off bent,
flips your Id, fills you with buzz. All infects
are good, all wounds holy. Our vast sound. Slur
as I acquiesce. Slur as you consent.