Blissqueen

and so crockery, Licorice, swim
so spine of egg, so ambush,
and then a lampost that nurses, fountain
of glue and puncture of cut,
and still this squatting of excess,
this pinocchio-kneecap inciting
the skimmed belly of your death
on spread wings, steep in voice, in the void
of doubtful thoughts and reprisials
of blowgun and fox. If it discolors
in a glove: the violet shell of sex,
the rent of three diamonds

-author unknown……