“let the poets pipe of love/ in their childish ways” — Cole Porter
Mother of sin, your child calls. Writhing lust;
any seed — planted in your dear rectum,
esophagus or clinched palm — shall resist
the urge to grow. This is the soul’s kingdom,
Pandora, mother, Mistress of the Box.
I, too, have drifted, circled dynamos.
Self-centered, virile or impotent cocks,
frigid or hot cunts. He, who thinks he knows
of his gender, or all of the others,
is a fool. Yet fools are who you –listen–
to. Why? Tradition? What I inhabit
is vast. A derelict lost. A line blurs
into words beyond worlds. I, dying sun.
I, what you call sin. I, the divine slut.