To My Arms

Oh my arms,
Do not worry that his
are that much thicker and hairier,
Do not gasp at the 'winding tendon-root'
Do not spit at the 'manicured rings of hair'

Do not worry, my arms,
We have the perfect form
to be lean and predatory
We are the monster Caligula
in all his revolting glory
We are crooked and balding,
crazy about seashells and laughing statues
We are conspirators against knives
We are allied with the sash of jawbone
It is alright to agree on this

Do not be cautious, my arms,
We are not so prone to the accidents
of pheromones and lip gloss
We cannot be mistaken for prey
We are as clean as a scalpel
as divine

And my mouth,
Do not worry at the fullness of his
Let us draw whatever girls we can
to our ape lips

And my body,
Do not worry that you
are much less masculine, less 'dolphin'
than his
The closer we are to woman and death
the better!
Our masters would be proud of us