My Folk Realism

You. legato and polyform,
likened to another squall
leathery crepe skin fragile at a glance
unfoldings perfunctory thanks to logic

I am what I am afraid of

I fear my machine parts
blowing off their hinges

Moldings and cross-sections
of an ideal fit

I will be passed over by possibility of beauty

airplanes vs. helicopters
spread-armed breasts or spiral wall

milk blossom poised to erect
as phallic mother

multiple sap oozings

An indestructable plastic necessitates male and female parts

Form begs shattering to reach molded core,
as underlying as brick to lime honey
to blood-orange tart gelled
to weakened belly, legs, groin
to kissing the breach between wombs,
body bent between bodies,
candle wax and tactile shapes.

So much promise, we can fold
into angled limb constructions
that sound registers of desire,

But I refuse to let you fuck me