muchfuckdyke (Horticulture)
Daisy dukes through
town after soaking her skirt on a dare.
she’s off, but often offering: doesn’t scare
me. friendly enough and grew
bankable breasts; let me cop my first feel. promised head.
Amber only bumps for bread.
lackadaisical me; i dream daisies.
i sold my whole heart to every
flower she ever had the pleasure to pluck.
“i love you too,” she bloomed, “but i’ll never have quite as much
to sell.” darling, you’re already more than enough.
us’ll survive each scurrying scurrilous faggot-fucking fuck.
our discourse parodies prophecy:
“fuck the police.” “i do. i’m banking on it.” but Chicago
cops lock up more gay whores than rapists. So.
if we piss you off, you can piss on me—
that is if pissing gets you off. tell me what you like:
fifty extra or a glock. show
me your carnage incarnate. Amber’s bi. Daisy’s just a dyke.
who will ever really know.
(Perfect flowers have both stamens and pistils.)
Daisy’s daffy: girl has all the time in the world
and spent near none on a sulk.
[like lilacs or lilies she used to lilt. then Everymister bloom
his bloody balloon.
crept cross her canals. pried and pinned and pumped and forced with fists
her fluttering points
until barely could either breathe and up she blew. hurled.]
come evening, Amber’s out and so jejune
do talk
the two:
“Yes, i will die dim, insides fallow fields full and empty
of Everyman—without return from Sir’s insurmountable mount.”
“for the best, i guess: returns a little death; not only death
is death is bigger than big.” “I jests at that (what pests me):
i wake each day aquake in mourning dew; always of sorrows
do i lose my count.
and yet: today awake am i.” “tomorrow?”
“we can bet again on breath.”
i need know one brute truth, oh ambling Ambers all:
are you ashes? or in scarlet swatch plumes
will plummet upwards you upon your words?
(says Everyman:) “come now—upwards.” “through such thick brume?”
now PEP’s in your step. you’ll not be sick more; ought it may teach
you how to grieve each
hospital, however indomitably inhospitable to whores.
i’m here.
though for all you’ve fallen floral, come here, Daisy dear: i’ll be your ward.