Tags
conversations with imaginary sisters, lurk, Pacific, poem, Poetry, sonnet, where the boys are all fey in tight jeans and mullets and the girls can bench-press small cadillacs
I preach you: Venice Beach was Pacific.
I say: Gods still lurk with humans. Muscle
Beach. In a mawashi, no less. Mythic
with such proportions. “Psalm in my bustle/
Swing on my skin” … on Yakuza tattoos.
Bourgeois say women in the Sumo
Ring is unnatural. “I sang the Blues
in/ that string-bikini.” With her cello
wide hips, with each dumbbell hefted, I say,
bodybuilders are a queer lot. –– Gods still
lurk with humans. –– Unnatural, I preach
you, ain’t knowing, taint that. It’s what the Fey
would call, Small Hick Frinergy. –– A hornbill
of a diss: way bey black some Venice Beach.



