The lobster sang in the boil, and it made sense
Since even the Hadapelagics had found out
About language, by then; and big whoop? A poem
Only ever a shitty wig to mourn in. The same as sports,
If you’d consider the foam finger. Red Delicious™
Juicebox crushed, in flux, bitter elegy for body
Burns a body in this head. Seen a body
Boxed up in The Common Sense
Geometry? A cross between Froot Loop™
And motorized cockring? We could flesh out
This mess, exorcise the muscle memory. Join a sports
League: community kickball, New Age poetry
Readings. But still blood stream propels poem
Back up brainstem: the leaching body
Of a landfill, phallic form in calla lily. Sports
Field of magnets, eyes, incantation carved out
Between thighs — magic made sense
Out of your genitals. Gave shape, assigned fem™.
And soil granted you soap. And the sky, Apple™
Stock. All fat processed for poem
To produce. State gave measured raging on sports
Station; staged a nation with ballplayer body
On sand, ballerina in heat. Patriot scent, hivemind sense
Tickle, your bleacher mouth bleed and the Skittles™, puked out.
Open up an accordion’s guts. No sound comes out
Besides science reactions. To make the first Man™
God put bugs in the colon, embedded binary sense
And said nothing else. The rest of gender was poem,
Us, fearing worms, hacking words to cobble body.
So we worshiped weird lyrics on Achaean warsports
And ate bikinied incubators on Sports
Illustrated pulp. It was all that was eternal. Moving out
Of rabid infrared and body
No longer a Bop-It™
You join motion. You write your poem
(No one thinks it makes sense):
In its suit, I buried body. Earth spat the fabric out.
Flower girls still sprout soft nonsense, boys search and destroy in their sports.
In dimension where Nothing™ is branded, how else do you write this poem?