Never Play With Your Food

Warning
This Poem is rated Mature and may contain material unsuitable for readers under 18.



Fire hoops are for circus dogs
and astral planes are fueled by
groovy Astro-knots

come here

I have an unreachable itch
and I need you to scratch it


tenderly,


until it stops bleeding.


Nine and 1/2 weeks
looks like Hans Christian Anderson


in drag


where a heart still calls 911
off a bathroom wall


for a good time,


where death

wears tassels
and paisley,


and I scream your name
in quinolyl fairy tales.

He wants his honey in lace
and combat boots.


A hip so smooth it burns like
whiskey going down,


and dreams that spell
like perfume
when he lights her cigarette
and dives into never-land.


she wants a fair fight
a fighting chance.


This is an equal opportunity
my space,
Coxbones and ashes.