When you murder a french cock

for your country in the morning, my Queen, bang

your head and scream, dizzy with love

& a wave of patriotic grief. No,

I cannot bear it. I cannot

bear my calendar today.

I can see no evil in the sunrise.

Ladybug, honey-bunny, mon coup

de foudre; this is a theatre of cruel

commitment to the looney, always

accessible and phallic, I am so gay right now.

Baby bella. My field of buttercups. & Celebrate

the scissoring pinpoints a message, the poem, wraps

it in a cardboard box, makes a dummy box.

(Measure the bars, the slope

of her back, slammed up

against the wall in the chapel.)

Watch out for families!

There will be no communication

in this carnival. No line

of antique modes

of transportation, bridging

the gap between morning

and night, the gap between

peaks, no woman watching

her ball take flight.

We are pig-skinned women.

Dizzy and gay, snipping at garlands! Snipping

at skin, skipping in a line of devil ballerinas, refusing

to see evil in a buttercup, seated upon

the big french cock like a couple of sirens

flashing big tops.

& Not even the stone face

of Vietnam, not a lollipop, not a hot plate

can send me to sea like your horned

choreography. You are truly scenic

& green, don’t show me your garland!

I am trying to see no evil.

Chestnut, hear me roar.

There are plenty of fish

written, bespectacled with Vision,

all dolled up like donuts, straw-

berrying their hearts.

There is honey in the honeypot.

Let your lemons bomb the sun.

My prize, the milky way.

Galaxies fading into grayscale,

kissing the boy goodbye.