His Blinking Sounds Like Bass Drums

Pale boy is better than you
Pale boy
Ash-white boy
With his soft jacket that blazes
And his white hands
And his grand smile-


oh his grand smile-
It reflects off of and scorches your retinas
And turns your insides rotten
It corrodes them
He’s better than us, the
Ginger boy
And he smiles to
Makes us smile
Because he knows otherwise we just won’t because we
keep our thoughts between our ribs
And our chests always hurt so, so bad
He carries fluorescent tic tacs in his sweats
In plastic containers
Auburn tanginess in a smooth, glass-cool case
The boy’s big eyes are
Shredded fall leaves
And rotting carrots
And smashed pumpkins
And his breath is the color of tangerines and if you lean in too close you’ll be engulfed in a flare
Of peaches and the loud and spicy scent of citruses
And the tic tacs he hands out don’t taste like they should-
Of stifled mangoes-
No, they leave behind the encapsulating aftertaste of an ephemeral sunset,
Disrupted by his voice-
And his voice is a smooth blues record with scratches
His blinking is the sound of bass drums and his words are always on the edge of his tongue but
They burn his lips, and when he
Cools the flame
When he cools the flame
All you hear
Is the harsh snapping
Of fall leaves and wilted poppies
Under his burnt autumn feet