Same Song Edens

He speaks through his groin in the

pale morning for the sake of leaving

sparkling sperm on his man’s feet in

the spartan room made for gods and

Machiavellian authors who speak of

maidens castrating operatic figures so

supple and clean and ready for their

worlds to end.

***

And how does he destroy newspapers

depicting courts circus-ing boy-parts

in the name of Jesus. She hovers over

the whigs to save the fairies dripping

with the shame of redwood proportion

to bury him, he, they.

***

Maybe when the cosmos made touching

of the same male verses, their bodies

kept entanglement promises for mirrors,

and concluded that sameness would make

the archaic stars so entrenched in approval

of Creators that disapproval cut angels.

***

So, forget his tattooed likenesses and

forgeries because you have made him with

your primal mixing of the embryos

pulsing in your cult families and cell pools

that protect your offspring from digging

through the ocean’s bottom and ending the

goddamn world.