is licking the translucent mirror; reflection of nodules
on my post-menstrual face. A Pan-Asian queen’s voice
of profanity and agony with no makeup on, rubbing
the guitar fret with her fake Manchurian fingernails,
like I’d imagined a voluptuous blonde fingertips sliding
on my Best Friend’s naked torso down to his swollen member.
The night before my Best Friend and I are about to fuck,
his queen-sized bed splits into halve due to wear & tear
just like my mother’s tear duct flushed to dryness,
forcing me to finish a plate of fish n’chips, while
the nurse wheels my father’s body into the elevator;
a new mother stood beside me, breastfeeding her newborn,
demanding for words of congrats. Her expression changed
when I showed her my father’s rigor mortis posture.

I ask my Best Friend to bury my alter-egoistic heart
after each beautiful fuck. He kisses my third-eye,
my brain’s heavily pumped by the balance of Tao,
the living and the dead, the fluidity mass of Adam & Eve.
Tonight we cook blood curry & dead white potatoes,
baking marmalade cakes, overloaded with poppy seeds.
His family’s prayer unable to cure their insomniac slumber,
by the time he’s sowing horny seeds into yours truly
under the papaya tree of futile pistil, stamen and leaves,
the twin-flame ashes succumb to the danger of self-love.
At the stroke of midnight, my Best Friend exhumes
glowing seeds and my fluids inside a banana tree flower,
burying right next to the adolescent papaya tree,
I named the spawning experiment Bianca Jayne,
after the initials of our favourite foreplay.