Enfold
us, to drift through orgasms, and lately return. I churn
a
storm, gripping for manic, and lying for laughing. Oh so
grown—to
intimidate men, a born cyclone. I’m fever heavy,
stabbing
a Jaguar, asearch for amore. She dies for cryptic,
popping
Zanex, with pitch black pupils. I’m unfastened, a
zone
within, a proud purple castle. We chisel visions, to
grind
to music, to wail hysteria. I love her in midnight, and
leather
boots, speaking kindly. We weep for glory, afflicted
fully,
a web of bleeding clocks. Our dice, ever for chance,
heavy
on the sevens. I love her, our sore lament, to possess
but
a fraction. She lives the mystic, walking with wolves,
hellish
on a mental. Its eyelash moods, and coated facials,
spitting
on gourmet. I see her—to pause in parentheses,
mourning
a raincoat. We lock so well, to hear the unsaid, to
chunk
a pair of glasses; for its contacts and contracts painting
a
white rose. We bled it—on nicotine jazz, and cocaine
coffee.
Its rhinestones, and trinkets, and ten minute prayers;
where all is life and
licorice tears, gagging for a toilet.
