What does this poem imply about LGBT?
Annual glossaries split every spectrum of dusk,
when Teutoburg Forest lived through it,
on a forum entreating riddles of existence
to a queen on standby for a D.C. lobbyist.
ferret gutted frogs that didn't give a ribbit or the semblance of a croak.
In a garden, there was a weed,
boiled like an herb, still pistols —
dried the same on the eve of October.
“Though another sacked cozy in the rocks,” clamored a coiled ivy.
Respiring through a cloth soaked in gender and agender and sex or an associate of agamicity
on a flipping board,
neither follicles breath through the wisp of shadow.
My electives cough on graphemes the creeping earths can't say
of their intimate nature
and presume singled martyrs by each age religion
to the Q enlodged in the crease of the eyes.
The realities, before spirits, have names, said,
you ought not forget, like retcon saints,
resting on a non-binary — binary-intact if butch probably,
for as much as political practice,
holding that, beyond capitols,
was also stemmed off slam fiction.