Pushy Sonnet

Sometimes I push your Wings
around and I know you feel it;
it's like sportfucking, only softer.

Ever fly over an artificial lake
in the snow with a drunken pilot?

Usually, next to you grizzled angels
flipping off God, eating Tastykakes...
stoned as moss, your sort of ho-hum
Saturday chin chowderfest.

I worry about the phobic red line
your cardinal makes
towards the sunflower seeds.

How you suck out your father's eyes

from the heads of those stranger cocks.