The apple of my eye is the apple that I eat

and shit daily. And the next day shit again.

I take the sins of men with me

to the cross and the slit. I’m not that strong.


I stare at myself: splayed arms, dangling prick –

what a grim comedy I must come to terms with.

And you, the heat: the heat: the heat

when you press up into my tongue and teeth.


I would be a banshee were it not for the wrong sex organs.

Funny how a penis stands between me and what I want:

to know what a belly is good for, to see the love

that fails to faze me turn solid into the bone and horror show


that is the life a child, any child, is born to live.

Your pussy splits before me, a chicken’s breast

under a cleaver: boneless, full of fat flesh

to gnaw and swallow down in the name of health, need.


All the rot of hetero love in these dull and damaged times

trickles from you. God help me. Could I dive-bomb

into your uterus? Could I sneak my way back up into before?

And come out just like you, carrying the little zero of our world?



Matthew Kosinski is studying poetry in the New School’s Creative Writing MFA program. You can find him online at


Featured painting is The Flirtation – Eugen de Blaas