baby made

the baby we made
is dead -
I

can't say why
won't say when
I know
no one's fault
to blame

and anyway
the poor thing
outlived both our dumb asses

as the poem takes place from some
unspecified plane
of high all alone

what the hell kind of poem
's this supposed? to be
Started out

bad. Can't now
well, wait maybe

the poem is the baby?
The baby is the poem

We have to go on. But
- what's this "we made" biz? I don't recall

you sticking your business in
during any phase of this! My brain
is the womb in which ideas swim!
Spermily around, fertilize each other
vulgarly, incessantly and - some of them
- wiggle head-on into the wall, smack! Stick there

and grow

like some abominable feces
fetus, I mean

- mine, not yours

Like a uterus, my mind
clenches and spins, revolving
in its unmistakably uterine manner,
grown poems spat out of my hot,
vaginal (purely in this context) mouth
like the assembly line end
of the perpetually knocked-up baby factory

it's been turned into

by some cad, some domineering lout -
infinitely possessive in his progeny,
despite his evident lack of labors

- also me. Like I said, you
don't come into it and cannot be blamed

this baby of ours

is all mine.

Finally

I think

it has your eyes

it is giving me that look

perhaps you could spare some advice
or

maybe
let's forget we had this talk,
however long
it took?