Honk If You Love Orpheus

I was flying about our dwelling again,
with refurbished phoenix wings
I had borrowed from some trashy dead girl.
You anchored yourself in a bowl of fruit.
"That cat is gay," your son said. Your daughter
hit him. I was amused that Percy Shelley
was such a con artist, such an immaculate tool.
The immortal swindlers of our tribe
are very dear to me. I'd make apple sauce

for any one of them. The old-fashioned way.
There are swallow that return again, again.
An evolved whoredom.
I believe the game's called Drama Queens & Ghostbusters.
Which one are you? I'm the wallflower type,
although sometimes my ass knocks down the wall.
I feel sexiest when you put your hips to mine

and say get real stupid now. Tarzan decontextualize Jane.