No more vents, so we press ibuprofen
like snapdragons, seething linen.
Bleach rides the stairway, folding
cantaloupe worn with meat steps.
Flipping each other over. My turn.
You’ll get to it. Hold down. Try?
Less bones in tender zoo, eggs
squint under cheap eye substance.
Gristle down heroin-bright legs.
Swan pudding. Tip our fingers,
rank with bearded luck and chest
weekly heather, drops like road
syrup, brown palace condoms win.
Pale bridges of ceiling. Call it snow.
Limp days. No more vodka fruit,
no more throats. Squirm noose hips,
spider bites held up by crown-coke
paste, scales off the cleaning Sea Dead.
White animals come back our swollen
wrists, waffle the limpid bird yolks.
Stop bleeding already, it's boring!
Rinse your cut. Soft. Suck. Repeat.
Graph pillows, the blue lights over
nylon street bars. Ass tastes dry
of grill panic, shit plates teeth in sprawl
comfort. Swans wink a reel miss.
Remember the toilet melody, the pray.
No more blankets, no more cage.
Love the sing iron in our fist,
flipping me over as your cry skunks.
Of course we're losers! Stroke it first.
Sigh. Now again. Weird: these maggots taste
avocado-ish. That’s nothing, wetted cringe.
Let it settle the fit, diverge our code.
Animals door for our braided meal.
Your turn is coming. Better! More light.
Look at your loosen face, oh, prim?
That’s nothing, just suck. Yes, suck on.
And try to shake your born. Hot, right.
We’ll get the hang of it. Blonde krills future.
Know it will work out, pustule stitch.
Every one of your nipples a constellation
in itself. If only the white would leave.
No one’s perfect. Oh no. NO. My turn lives.
