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,

soap,

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;

and

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…”