I wrote a poem and asked a professor to read it.
He said: IMAGE IMAGE IMAGE IMAGE
like a mad man on meth, foam running down
his mouth crowded with sharp, shimmering teeth.
So here is an image: He is a pickle and I a donut.
This he-pickle is tied to a string, held by God,
and God tugs at this string such that he penetrates
the hole at my center repetitively, rhythmically.
IMAGE IMAGE IMAGE IMAGE IMAGE:
We are water buffalo fucking in the forest,
and he pulls out before he comes,
and instead of semen what emerges is a rainbow
that spans half the world, a promise that
the world shall never again be engulfed by flood.
Or, or, or: He is a handsome boy who holds my hand
in a place where they sell stale pizza, and he says,
“I cannot love you the way you wish,” and
suddenly the inside of my stomach is filled with ants,
and they emerge from my anus, my nostrils, my eyes,
and he and I are devoured by them,
but the pizza is so stale even they won't touch it.