a poem for today, 9 July 2012
[a syllable sorted sonnet of eight sentences and its image]
My organ is detachable and yours reconfigures.
They are a collective figure that still has no name.
Looking back on it now I feel silly for being embarrassed.
The bottom line of projected nothingness is the bodily cut.
Bisexuality gets run through the meat grinder of social bullshit pretty hard.
I'd like to become the first insect politician.
And that’s what I did.
To persistently confuse contingency with the status of a question leads to embarrassing revelations.
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