Baphomess

I let your cartilage horns flinch, then ventilate your bloods  

in a slow, hip-hop motion, the type desert temples joke over,

and except for the vastness of a tickle, you are white noise

throne-splay aisles echo with the refrigeration of your stare,

trashing memories I tried to bunt out of your enamel growth,

but scars are sterile fountains and you only let me lick so far

you want a suicide bomber to open the pore depots between long

mayonnaise baubles of your goosebumps, while I suggest we collect

dolphin porn and heath gems from your mom’s open tomb and fuck

but something attracts you back to the prickle of echoes

in the sectioned flinch of your scab-dreams, your swarming wrists

analog chafing bone glitter, easing your throbjob to hemorrhage

already there plops the gloss pistils from your toothy whimper,

your stares freeze like photograph yolk, flushing noise embosses 

skin-brocade around you, yanking open holes to familiarize skids

only, there’s not much here I haven’t tasted in your celluloid

bouquet, so I drag out your salvage, put my arm around it

and tell big shadows about your smiles, cords, and tender legs

whatever, I lie about the linoleum gardens you eviscerated, and

this checkout lane isn’t really supposed to be so white and cold,

but the cellar you drilled into my cross has lacerated dark promise