HOLE BOUQUET ❋ Anna Mirzayan

When I lie awake at night I ask myself:

Is my cunt a sheath, or a diaphragm through which I breathe
in the heavy scent of night flowers
spawning quietly in the kitchen?

Is my ovum a kind of verdant stomach
sucking in pale strands of moonlight
from your willing proboscis?

Deep ancient Dung!
my petals, my flower
that loves carcass more than soil…
What if I am just a metallic worm crawling about my own intestines
feeding on informatics?
What if my kissing head comes out my ass?

A proposition:
If matter is kingdom carbonate
then I will wear my painted shell.

In the morning light our green arms are similar,
stamens covered in cigarette dust,
Bisexual flora whose
Placentas ridge and crop like painted mountains,
Branching transversal flowers glance at each other
through tinted screens
Where a suprasensual florescence belies a
moist pleasing reality.