The Cacographer

Are you for 86?

Now, plus two or plus three
he goads himself over you
and over the missing two in raised and now
stuffed trousers
and you wait with rubberstrips to
push out something like a parasite
now, coalesced.

and, like wax, grown immense
and slated like cancer in gowns
it picks it’s geletationous hand
that looks translucent against your
breast so empty and cavernous
that your tit pulls its gums and sweaty lips
until it bawls blood.

so two years plus three before
you look for divinity in triplicate
or at least duplication from the three before
or the three that wetly made them
and find a quadruplet
missing bones with too many cells
and chromosomes marked in redundancy.

it squalls out for fathers with red chins
and red arms made from rubber and pressed
to your shape, one child made from four,
made by three.

posted by OrangeDrink @ 4:24:00 PM