the game

Is it a bit? Silly

this identity,
poet -

a tattered cloth to my bones or
bones to shattered flesh? How to know

but what is ever
there: me, of the grappling

heart and head
game

red and white
inside a criss-cross mind.

rhetoric of a blue balls heart

what cruel god creates me
in the image of the paraplegic?
backbone shattered, so,

dimwitted, I tap this
and that for pleasure, forget
deeper chords once struck.

what sets me dead-eyed
before windows and watches
me, so frustrated, fap fap fap, while it

weaves this
widening void where I
grope the wrong end of
the wrench and use
screws as earplugs? what deranged power

made it so that I have a dick but no balls to use it
till I forget the life in me and dully, belly-ache?