A goddess once split soil like legs.
She knew what seed does in the dark.
What it does laid deep in wet trenches.
Teaching humans the obscenity of agriculture,
making the earth spread itself open,
forcing seed into wound.
She learned men to force return.
To reap. To reap and sow.

But the no-good man sees no boundary lines
or he regards them not applicable to his deeds.
A deep wet trench looks all the same to him,
a thing wanting seed.
Enter any flower picking girl making daisy chains
and he’ll see her as a deep wide gash
lusting for some dicking.
When seed thickens not unfurled
there are many claims it psychoactively
affects the tree
and sends other systems leaking.
Sow it goes.

A goddess once split time like legs
to only half regain
a stolen daughter.
Not just grief but a weaponized refusal
blue-balling the entire cosmos.
Every field a dried cunt, every tree refusing to fruit.
Forcing death to wear a rubber,
making the universe pull out.
The world brought to its knees by a woman’s NO.

Spring eternal, they say, while eternally sprung.
But a no-good machine knows no boundaries.
Contracts and factories now
replicate and bury the seed.
Monsanto keeps Persephone
tied up
in court over the Lay’s potato.
To litigate. To litigate and own.
Sow it goes.

April is not cruel,
it is temporary release.
Half the year a hostage,
half the year marketable bloom.
Turns out death is just another hole
to get fucked through.
And every harvest
just a tiny death.
And every seed
that cums
forth carries
the memory of how to rot.

Sow it goes.