The poem is all too plain, but I
Am intricately constructed,
Octopus armed and lazy fingered,
Some great mass growing greater,
More spineless with each
Inking. You ask, what is it called?
And what is the point of it anyway?

The oceanographer researches, responds,
States the purpose is immeasurable.
I offer:
One.  Distraction,
Two. Smoke screen, and
Three. Mass confusion.
But darling, I am nautilus, and
My tentacles are
Imaginary.

God gave me eight limbs: two arms, two legs,
The rest, male, you can imagine,
Two labia (why all this counting?), and a clitoris,
An umbilical cord suspended, and in its place,
I grew a pen.

It’s got no fancy name; it’s called an ink sac,
A weapon that I have no sense to
Claim nor comprehend. And to the numbers?
To the years since, to the fingers,
Diligent fingers that have entered, exited,
And dispersed.