Keep packing the sand
grains deep in my brain,
back it up and prepare
for war, cancer climbs
its way down my throat and
nestles in my lungs. Choke me
with your flypaper ideas and rip
off the collected dust on my face.
Abstract art, cigarette love.
Illusions and spiky throats can't
talk or communicate effectively
like a frog with a tongue ring, I
may hook on your lips if you try to kiss
me. sriracha detergent... spin cycle on tremble