hanging the first place ribbon

I like the tiny testicles of ants
strung together like pearls
and hung round the necks of
girl-poets in heat for the masculine
ticks and talks of the celibate weasels
high on the crack of shitty poetry

Who doesn't?

but, tell me, as the keyboards
around all tap in the happy syncopation of
dead love, what is the sigh,
the goliath that we must slaughter
in verse a thousand times,
that thin string strong enough to bear
such weight as the issues there
in ant sperm and unspoken sex juice?

How is that noose made?

it is not six-legged, but four
and too armed with bad words
that we creep the wall of bitter battered
better infamy and the itsy bits of words
antsy along the sleek black of our uncrushed shells

Here in this farm, who watches?

These jewels are not so infinitesimally small
that only poets might perceive
nor so sturdy that our bardic barbs can not pierce
and string them, one by one into
the bridal dream of well hung coitus
round blithe and bonnie poetic arse

No, no ants in this farce dare win, or lose.
For all love sugar and the spew of tiny soldiers.