My Brittle Star arms detach in the acidic water of you.
I stir, and try to escape the gaping tremor or your teeth
uncovered face
free of meat.
Roaches crawl inside your skull,
the bone powdered with the years,
all that remains:
Toskavat.
You are an Incan Mummy, the sack pulled off,
as rosy-cheeked, young boys stare through misty bus windows
still spackled with flecks of mud from your wet road.
They smile -
their microbes shared unintentionally,
a condomless foam party.
Apr 27, 2011
Apr 27, 2011 at 6:14 PM UTC
My Brittle Star arms detach in the acidic water of you.
I stir, and try to escape the gaping tremor or your teeth
uncovered face
free of meat.
Roaches crawl inside your skull,
the bone powdered with the years,
all that remains:
Toskavat.
You are an Incan Mummy, the sack pulled off,
as rosy-cheeked, young boys stare through misty bus windows
still spackled with flecks of mud from your wet road.
They smile -
their microbes shared unintentionally,
a condomless foam party.
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