She, I (Cut-Up poem)

Monsters who fly, 
they learned to fall.

Spreads mad, spreads thin cover on with copper.
Well-bred, born with curls,
love can’t collect in her breath.

Let men wonder if I, too, like tongue.
Chase legs.
We’re folded pretty in dust, 
while hands wish us to trap with pretty faces.

Are Frankensteins forgotten?
The vomit—we help ourselves.
Barbarous in velvet and sour humility,
and teach whorish angel—

She sits, but to God
her wings are Venus shelves.
She never yet stands neatly;
her bra’s honest. 

Mad girls, men, and satin lap. 
Any civility from us?
Us who weren’t like her.

She, I.