The Gelatin Giantess
after Kutti Revathi’s “Angels We Are Not” and some lovely Gurlesque Poets
The Gelatin Giantess II
It was in the morning,
when the hard rain lopped
off your head.
—
Flung it to the ground,
but it kept crawling,
mostly eyes, no ears,
—
bug brain, aimless.
Legs without mandibles
that birds chewed and spat out.
—
Pink, slimy, welted,
your body went searching,
through the city deficient
—
in sperm count.
The Gelatin Giantess VII
Casting mighty shadow
of bare body after slurping
clean your flesh’s slush,
—
you carried lamp-lit to the temple,
leading the festival procession.
Tiny hooves pelted stones,
—
snouts nipped your juicy ankles,
their squeals congealing.
You flood down the city
—
catching it on fire.
They chase your skin, those surly piggies,
which howls and leaks
—
like the true stench of punk.
The Gelatin Giantess XCIX
Oily Sphinxes own this now,
prowling they search for dried
milk of the forefathers.
—
From the city underbelly,
from your moist, black soil,
breasts sprout with thick sour
—
rinds. We might tell you
what a corpse is.
Nobody will hurtcha.
—
It’s cold and they will eat
what’s pink, fleshy, and a torment.
As the sun sinks yours bloom so,
—
the worms can thread your bones.