|art by Monica Aissa Martinez|
Oblite thee! You're no egg of mine, nor will ever be
beastily cascading down, slime-covered from my Fauverie.
Though you do bestow a fuller forme with ingenuity,
You are no kinge, no son of mine; vacate my ovarie!
Faker, quayside crawler docked in heaving waves: avast!
Spewing hurling ralph-and-earling, leaving me aghast.
Booming thunder pummeling in laparoscopic blasts,
Shrewd marauding therapie / corporeal lambaste.
Hungry doctors do associate your countenance with food.
To an apple or a grapefruit or a pea they do allude.
Perhaps they plate and instagramme you while I am subdued.
It matters naught, in afterthought; I've nothing more to brood.