Venus Flytrap

I want a mellifluous chirper.

I want it loud and plump,

I want it flighty, I want to fight it

until it liquefies.

I want its legs long and wings chitlin.

I want it fiddling meat-wild rage

and I want it bad.

When it comes, I’ll be as patient

as outfield grass in winter.

The hairs on my leaves’ll be as loose as

a mum bulb awaiting bees—

as a peat bog awaiting peat hogs.

When it comes, I won’t clamp down

until that scar-pocked coin

turns round in the pitch ocean sky.

Then I’ll snort it fast as blow.

Who cares if I die twice?

I’ll digest every last eye and antenna

before that panting sniffer comes to spray my feet.

I’ll absorb the carnal proteins like Adonis

ogling the red frock on a Greek god’s date

and my high speed, high def snap of jaw

will be your awe-inspiring trauma.

This is all for you.