Gelatine.

Where did all my yearning go?
My treacle blue has oozed away
Seeped through my fingers like deviant putty, drenching-
Staining skin that we shed clandestine,
So that we may siesta once again
On the organ-feasting table.
 
Repetition nulls the wits,
Making blunt the piercing sword-
Dampening it into a bludgeoning mace,
Discharging their testosterone, spurting pretence:
Into my palpable, genderless hollow-
Now I am occupied with wanton abortion.
 
Am I not just a grubby Mollusc?
A glitzy shell to blind and muddle-
Leaving behind a aspic trail, whiting septic-
Leaving sludge under sensitive skin-
No water to cleanse, only
Searing-hot barbs to gurgle your skin.
 
But the blackening veil always hides,
I have not the licence to construct pain-
Only intense building-blocks, bearing no merit,
For the white men have not written me a permit-
So I must weep invisibility,
And remain silently broken and sore.