A girl-
or rather,
a someone,
(a someone who was a virginal Beast of sorts)
pranced between the lips
of a boy in costume
of sanded-down chin
and a sliced face
(we call him apples)
and
-Did I Beg For This?-
begged:
-Yes-
“take the illusion
of my spiritual breast,
scrawl
a blue X
where I starve”
So do you?
(you do)
“traffic my constant frustration
please? I am in such stubborn, sweet confusion”
she gasped as if he was
a syrupy glob of extremities available for rent,
so dense on fate’s reprehensibly honest tongue
...and he did:
Like a fat ogre and a little stick,
he swore in circular burns
(I live between 400-900 degrees celsius
It’s nine months past August)
(I write about you too often, I see
It’s three months until August)
and took the concept of
“future”
Tangled it up in extreme touching
of radical hallucinations,
using her own temperature-sensitive heart bones
to poke at the fire.
a Someone,
a Someone who became a vile Beast of sorts,
set some girl’s fiendish fable
to flames
and easily lapped up the fumes
of beastly burning flesh
(no thank you).