The world is born in the kiss of your yawn and slap,
As if the brooks in the green lagoon tremble of fish
Raining and hailing in all directions, as the clouds
Part its curls, brimming with tired laughter and mad pink
Rays of acacia-flavored sun. Old buildings crash down,
Reluctant of their petulant fall, the oblation’s head roll

And returned to its body, charged with vitriolic roll,
When your subterranean eyes begin to violently slap
About its oyster shell, the well of love-liquid pours down
From my hungry mouth, like eating a wriggling live fish
Caught between the running streams of your narrow pink
Garden, waiting to be visited by fork-tongued clouds,

Whose shadows in lazy midday madness cast clouds
Of doubt in the electrified hawk circling as thunders roll
From this chance flaring of bad blood and lips gone pink.
And gods regenesised everything, that slinks slap
In the radish-white parts of your ready-to-eat fish.
Bright bubbling lights, bulbs my eyes, when brisk countdown

Of labor-lingered blast, instant small bangs in rundown
Grass nest, brushing the horn blares and jeepney’s gray clouds,
Away from our green tryst. We feast on our picnic catfish
That muddies our ichthyic limbs that limp loosely and roll
At the slightest wink. The slightest sight of sleep, you slap
Awake the first vegetation that unfurls in my ludic face, pink

In its exhaustion, in its continual rubbing at the site of pink
Depression near the geodesic heaven where angels fly down
To spread their feathers of terror and sweet pain. Like the slap
They give to newborns who taste their first air and fogged clouds
Of desire to live, so is this moment in the trees that we roll
Our souls, wrapped together like the magic spawning fish

In the rivulets within the wild arboretum, that nurtures fish
And feral creatures like us that careen in the dark groves, pink
Boulders submerged by others created in another time, roll
In another hidden plane, adsorbing the crash in the big dip down
The creamy quicksand, swimming the dizzying wet clouds
Which I, and the silent birds and trees exchange with the slap

You choose, the roll of your thighs, the cosmic spurt that shoots down
On my squirmy fish, the eye in the hole which my tongue calls pink,
And the almost green clouds that saunter above, giggling-ready to slap.