Roger The Transsexual
Time-squared, simple, giant octopus.
Maybe daisy,
one says, some days.
Feeling like a queen
that fell off her throne
in front of a bad witch.
I can’t decide, yet, who I like.
Roger the transsexual likes me
with his full sex change,
from petrol to diesel.
Perhaps, probably, let’s hope, eh?
The fire-flies of beauty lie beneath the surface.
Die.
Pressing her buttons, she comes.
Her prince comes too,
earlobes joined to the neck.
Naturally falling apart at the seams
she doesn’t get much worse,
promise.
Safely waiting to breed,
she let’s them know.
01.08.02
Tags: poem