I drip
like sin boiled in honey
(eat my sadness away)
while it settles
between my synapses,
between my thighs;
A tickling
funeral pyre gag.
The rum-butter shrunken 6-pack rings
linked,
strangling
until my fins are gutted and scarred,
the ache to be beautiful
curling nonchalontly between my shoulderblades.
Dissociative disappointment,
chum,
and kerosene
pick-pecking scale by scale
in friendship bracelet amusement innocence
until there is nothing left but
my breasts,
Kurt Vonnegut,
and the eloquent way you rape my earrings.
Practical Blasphemy: 