Spinach-stuffed Penises

There’s a line of electricity

One that’s been whispering in my tears

Rolling in the buttered sugar, like spinach and sadness

Like heavenly madness

There’s an echo in the ground

One that’s come out of my body

As they put me down to rest

I whisper insanities into the void

Heretic, they said

More or less screamed it in my cortex

Leaves and branches broke under my feet

Walking step by step

Birds howling in the vicinity

Why am I allowed to fly, to creep out of my skeleton…

… whereas hot girls smoke in bars by the sea,

Old men standing by lamp posts

Children crash by humongous waves

Mothers sit in their carts, dreaming of lullabies

; and butterflies

Drinking milk from cartons

With the faces of their boys plastered all over the mountains

It’s all about spinach and buttery sugar

,melting together, weaving in some pottery and ashes

It’s all about my heart being broken into a thousand bread crumb

A folk tale, a back rub, a sprained ankle, a foot massage

Pedicures and manicures, lawns covered with rhapsodies

They all empty their buckets into my pockets

It’s all a game of who would stuff the spinach first into the penis

Who would seal the meatus shut with silvery duct tape and butter

Would you serve my penis cold, with meze on the side?

Would you eat my spinach-stuffed penis with a strong stomach?

Does it matter if my tears taste like sugar rolled in butter?

There’s a leaf that escaped my throat

One that’s brown and yellow with emptiness

Like spinach gone foul

Like eggs gone raw…