I mean to uproot your brain when I play with your hair
let it whisper on me like an acorn spinning in
the breeze and dribble gen from a puking child’s mouth.
His skull is a basket, his hands a corset on me now –
I can make you a man once I get the disgusting bits out.
We have different wrinkles outside but our veins sip
blood similarly, a vampire or cannibal or a passionate
fan of our hearts’ discography. I have come to
a fork in the road where your folds become almost pink:
as vivid as a guillotine, the brain is dispensed to me.
Finally, I call him mine! And in my hands is your mind.