Operator? Violator.

Ashes from your Lucky Strike fall to the phone–

give flavor, texture

to the 1-900.


Wine tastes like overkill–

anatomy of the grape;

aged Sunday lobotomy

obsessed with your glass.


Linguist’s sex grows ripe

between receiver and circuitry,

“So fresh, you’ve sifted your chemicals.”


“Yes…it’s simply pheromone symmetry.”


Your flesh smells of itchy-knit,


and allergic reaction;

prompts you to scratch

while Enticement speaks,


“So, what’s your poison, Miss Magnificent?”


With cuticles gracefully pruned;

masters of the gene–

nail file rusts with anticipation,

Pygmalion’s coercion;

as you hungrily carve a heart

into a twice-blushed cheek;


embarrassed muscle splices

to form Cupid’s weapon of give–

and take.


You ache–

To feel chilly, February fertility;

and choose to mourn your labia

with brisk, feral ice synchronicity.


Climax instigates–

blurs grievous fingerprints

as they draw saturated portraits;

sweetly raw.


“Please, more for the road, Sugar,”

she coos.


Chipped wallpaper of academia

and antiquity vein–

sop up your exhaled moisture

through passive cracks;

and molding frame


As you stand–


For the bacteria that control you–

poor, singular nucleus;

dip your face in the wash water,

blow bubbles of grape extract and spit–

before withering lifelessly;

Lucky Strike still breathing and lit.


The phone line cackles, doesn’t mourn,

“Mad girl should’ve vacuumed, sexuality was her poison…”


6 thoughts on “Operator? Violator.

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