Self Portrait (Cock)

February 26, 2017

artlover

after Sam Rush

My cock tried to write a poem once too
named it “Self Portrait of Georgia O’Keefe On T or,
The Birds and The Bees But Just Bees and They Are Still Endangered,”
tried to talk about the flowers and only got so far as the bees
and removed the stingers hoping to make a crown of them and be a queen
but it does not work that way,
tried to write about something beautiful and also deadly
and was followed home,
tried to describe the way it wears a dress
and my doctor did not get it.
My cock still doesn’t wear make up to pick up
our hormones, does not know how to paint
anything and have it be Not Surreal.
Someone looked at my cock and saw a door once
hoping to find a boy inside of me but it was locked,
and my cock looked out of the windows of me and
tried to become a closet, a basement, something deep
something inner,
my cock and my belly button don’t talk anymore.
She got jealous that one was an in-ee the whole time
and it was not her, how my cock worries about
sticking out, making a scene, being probable cause.
My cock feels best in your clothes, but knows
that they are still yours?
My cock is a femme but still wears a butch’s clothing
to the dance, got fitted for the dress
and had to buy the suit anyways, god built
my cock a gown and she grabbed the armour
knowing how delicate it is to be a thornless rose.

My cock tried this body on over top of the one
she wanted and said “Yes…this is it. This is how
I get to be born and also be alive.” and god looks at
my cock and sees a scared child playing adult,
trying on her parents clothing hoping to look
the part, all the way down to the burial of emotions
and god says “Honey…I would say the shoe fits but that
is too much body for you to carry, you’re not gonna
fit in anywhere, all that extra space I built for you filled
up with this body…I mean baby, you know
you’re gonna kill yourself if you wear that
out too long…right? You’re gonna make yourself
an island made of magma, a mine collapse to fill
in a cave, a bridge of land that stops the river
from flowing into the sea, a field of flowers buried in ash.”

“I know,” my cock says, “I’m going to be something
so resilient not even the ocean can drown me,
I will stop the red from flowing out of me as if
I don’t have rivers under my skin to soak in, did you know
after the eruption of Mount Saint Helens, I was
the first thing to grow back and I was still a beautiful flower?
The cave of me will still be there when the mines collapse,
when the miners go home or die trying it will still be a mine,
it will still be a place full of beautiful things, what lives
inside of me will still be mine.”

My cock says, she once wrote a poem,
it was titled “Selling tickets to our doctors appointments
OR, 10 things you will find inside this girl body
and still name a boy anyways OR, Entering a cave,
ending in a parade of men carrying diamonds
that they have washed with my blood.”

Says she tried to perform it once,
and how her voice got lost
behind my throat.

Alain Ginsberg

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