Nefertiti friendzoned me,
and I was sad for weeks.
Her body was so full in life
that I wanted her guts.
Like the 24th Virginia,
I was aroused more by trees anyways,
and charged to battle
perhaps a better person,
You can be so Miley to me
because the woods’ “hoodedness”
is a progression of naked women,
kitties armed and ready
to defend state’s right
on the shores of the subservience
of metaphier to metaphrand.
Such effort taxes my personality.
Whorls me unmusically.
You knew that what you paid 99 cents for
would eventually become blood smeared
on the grass, and so we believed
no one is futureless.
Achilles, his bronze spear
thrown on the ground,
the Mycenaeans in full retreat
cried selfish nothings on the field of armor,
the dead anaphora, and the gods and his mother heard him.
“I wish someone would gut my muscle,” he said “or end me.
I wish love would be elected to execute me, or pardon me.
To at least bring the bill to the floor.”
Broken is the forsaken foot
of popular semantics.
Red, white and blue me!
Consider the octopus a shrink
in the ways he can commute
between virgins fully.
I want to climb into your friendzone,
dig up the psalm trees for their cores.
All the girls here are hooded witches,
tiny and Arabesque, inclined
to hit you like fritters banked
in a taxidermist’s back office,
more of a pick axe
The progression of naked minnows
and hero’d kittens wakens the mind
of a lonely ellipsis like Dickinson’s wake.
You speak of the bloodied monograms
tangentially, show your tiny respects
to the wild geese in the black pastures.
I will friend you delighted,
arm you untucked.
I will keep raising the roof until it cannot
flank another persimmon
from its baptized agriculture.
How do you execute a
meta-friendly diamond in the sky?
How do you contain its
blackened virus in your palm?