As a flower to the bee
or Existence to His 'Be!"
The mirror opens its sex
Only to its ex
Thy frigidity so fires my phallus
Ashes art thy gash's palace
Gnosis, God! cry me a river
Fucked 'tis to fuck a mirror
Fearing a critic, curt, might curb my inspiration
(Force-fed shite, he’d counsel constipation)
What, grave, I write as grave dirt must lie
On my samadhi trite & barzakh I.