Handsome knob, armadillo, hand grenade of army green, armour-plated petals, man enough to top a column or stop a banister dead in its tracks, you were never meant to open up and flower, let alone explode and rejoice, never scatter, amidst hosannas, your seed— no, not in this barren world at least.
Here, your lot is to keep it in, to remain tight-lipped and celibate, nodding your bald pate wisely at the mere rumour of pleasures you shall never taste—
the pleasures we have to drag out of you, by teaching you to be tender, to share with us your innermost feelings.
First, we apply boiling water, then the full treatment: one by one, I rip each petal from your heart like a confession
I’ll savour and discard, like a tongue whose root I’ve torn and streaked, as I tug and drag it out over my teeth.