putting up mirrors in my studio
some of that Soviet era music, ban my own cries for timelessness
Do a ballerina across the collar bone of the floorboard
Watch on the mirror as my penis
Follows the lines of the delicate material.
Or the other way round
Swan away in a river of my own making
Oh, how much of a ballerina
Spinning till the waking,
the music claiming my bones
makes me want to dredge the self,
remember my arm covered in mucous going into you
As per the request you made, like a morning drive request show
“Go into my vagina, through”, a place of beautiful mud
just forget myself in front of a mirror and close
my eyes, remember you how you carry time like an old lady.
The singing robin has decapitated itself.