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,
as you hungrily carve a heart
into a twice-blushed cheek;
embarrassed muscle splices
to form Cupid’s weapon of give–
To feel chilly, February fertility;
and choose to mourn your labia
with brisk, feral ice synchronicity.
blurs grievous fingerprints
as they draw saturated portraits;
“Please, more for the road, Sugar,”
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…”
Brilliant prose! Love it 🙂
Thank you so much, Joseph; I appreciate the compliment!
Amazing poetry, you’re very talented. Thank you for sharing your writings.
Thank you so much, Pensador! I am glad you enjoy my work. =)
Beautiful writings, from a fellow enthusiast of Sylvia Plath 🙂
Thank you so much, Sadlyme! I am glad you like my work.