Your pupils are iridescent jewels, 

Green and black beetle mothers,

Clicking with the tempo of their eggs.

In them I find myself,

My silly, animal face,

And hatch beneath your gaze. 

If matter is perception, 

You are the mad sculptor 

Of my amorphous clay.

The self is too eerie a thing to see.

Pupils shimmer like beetle-backs, 

Incubating thoughts like egg sacs.

Thoughts, which dawdle like bugs in a butter dish:

Death is as morbid and human as sex.

Dear Magician, 

Do you soak the pages of books with your mouth?

Would you, if poetry were the lamplight against my legs, 

Or if it were, like death, 

A damp and heavy silhouette?