When God Is Drunk During Creation It Is Not A Good Look

You rise naked from all things chaos
to tear the sea from the sky
and rub your hands together:
mountains, rivers,
metal, the cays and craws
wandering for a name;
your sloppy hands forge
luxurious breasts and balls
tight in a Babylonian fervor
no memory whatsoever
of the invention
of the platypus, mammal
with duck bill and venom
purely to compete for a mate—
sadist even then, knowing
the structure of pleasure and panic.
In those moments you hardly knew
what to call yourself.
In those blackouts
joy sat upon your face
like a loose mask
and you feasted on the last
of the unicorns
and licked the wings off Man.