If you were a corpse accepting cremation
               I would be the flame
                             that lavishly licked your flesh,
         the heat, heaped for your hair on a pyre
the last peril your boney body submits to,
making the air all around stink of you.

Forget the fact that you corrupt my mind,
             it’ll only work out if your thoughts stink of me.

                                       If for one second during
                        your self worshipping, wistful stares
          into a mirror that drips a musty condensation
                       that lingered from your skinny, ****
                         torso after your morning shower, you
                                stand there smile *******
                          yourself with puckered lips and
          un-dilated pupils, flirting with
                          camera phone pixels you think to yourself;

                                                     * Should I post me on myspace?
                               Should I send a text message pic to myself?
                 Should I forward it to that guy that I met
           to make him think that I’m burning for him?*

                             If for that second I could be but that spark,
                an after thought flare that gets you to want
                    more than what it is that you got,
                                          where would you go?

             With whom would you make yourself over?

I’m waiting for the morning your ashes
      wake next to me; smoldered and spread out over my

          mattress and under my breath, and
           your eye lashes charred with clunky mascara
                 crumble as you replay in your silly head
                          the late mass I celebrated last night
                                                   when I exhumed and inhaled
                                    that same condensation;
      
Little taste droplets of you then exhaled  
          from me to your golden tin flesh
     that burned you to ******.
      
                    Because of my tempered tongue you
               cravingly bathed with,
     because of your hair I feverishly wrapped
                round my fists as
         my head altered and smoothed out from whiskey  
    bounced waves of frivolous  

thrusts      pulls releases,  
           pushes      twitches              friction

                                                in perfect timed fashion
                                                between your radio
                
                  antenna       thin           legs  
      and your rib meat torso
you forced my lips unto.

                                                           That will be the night
                                   you will come.
                                                               Yeah, that’s right            

                 SEE                  YOU                    MMM-hmmm,

                                I will see you melt on that night.
                                         And it will be your cremation.