I hate my genitals.
They remind me of communism.
Who needs another vanguard party
ascending the staircase
à la mode?
Fish hang in chlorinated biphenyls
like unrequited high-fives.
I feel fat
just looking at their bleak schematics
for common ownership
and poor motility.
It’s hard not to dwell
on equipment failures.
Fur hats get stained
with gravy trains and show trials
in all the unlaundered cornfields.
The problem
is my Bolshevik asshole,
my sick-building sensitivity
to the indignity of not degrading
in sunlight, or in soil,
or at the unpollinated end
of a spring break break-up.
Allergies are such a squeamish response to sex
and satellite states.
There’s no use complaining,
the ombudspeople have already burst into leaf
and all the lines are bread.