Metaphormosis

Oh, my spine is weak, so
trim me close into a quire and
I will sing a story all for you -
closer to quarto than you know.
If you sew me with a steady hand,
know that I will buck; for
if I shall be bound, it will be
for Gothic myths and fantasies,
and not to your fairy tales.
And if you shall bind me, it will be
with ropes and bedposts, and
not to your sadistic soul.

You see, I don't cut down trees to read,
but find papyrus in the reeds
and weed it out to sow the seeds.
We all sew with seeds, fertilizing our fevers
until we can harvest them and
make passion with violence; so
if I shall be planted, it will be
on my dastardly ass and never
in your garden.
And if I shall be tilled, wait until
I am ripe and red, for then and only then
will I be fertile.


~09/09