Tarantulas and tawny birds
Beavers, tigers, the ocean floor
Jupiter’s hand reigning supreme
Over Pluto’s bosched world.
He didn’t create it, the dead or living.
Didn’t make it with his own two hands
Even the thunderbolts he wields
Are forged by another. His brother is
Hades Hieronymous, his grandfather fought
But him? Lord of the vacuous sky.
He fucks around with bestiality,
Screwing white cows and white hands
Loaner cows and loner cows
Trying to feel something be it horror
Mind fucking with cats and beetles
Doesn’t work so he digs, shoveling into
Himself, the black maw of memory, and
The nymphs flee their delicate nests
They think he’s Pan, devilish and hideous
God of nature in destruction, splitting the earth
Uprooting rotted roots, seducing Selene,
The moon in the glade of Crooked Trees of
Not far from Hafford, Saskatchewan.
He wants her, them, whoever. The nymphs.
Wants to feel her skin made of petals
Lips like spring buds, hands moist with dew,
He has a siren song.
“women of the trees, come out and indulge me.
pour me some of that drink,
come skinny dipping with me in that motherfucking cold crying river.
i don't know how to be free, i don't know
how to not be a douche, or a self-loathing leach,
but freeze me and maybe it will stop.
or better yet, burn me up and
i might get over myself.”