the moon's a rubber ghost

we strolled away from it
as if anything were real

the moon's a rubber ghost
outside the coast

where perverts shift the trees of
their rutting minds gestalt-guttered

we are but slow-motion orphans
to photograph ourselves fed full

boasting a joyous sex a yearning
to be held to be so-called confident

oysters why must you bother me
i ask not for pearls but tootsie rolls

not a soul can claim my death
my claws play wigs on the aha

don't mistake a single hole
or tell a soul

it's anal penetration
if you know it to be so