i’m boy with broken jaw
my face and flesh of citrus
fingers dripping resolute

by weight of sweetened tendon
the motion to which i descend
i last resort upon thy tenderloin gloss

touching me under sublunary breath
he melts darkness to sugarfisted ******
i taste of all he ever wanted

it’s a dirtyparadise out here behind the neon nickelcade
day-glo slithering below my belly
just ten bucks, and you’ll get your turn

Knife crunching through
skin? No, it slips down
like a gulp in the throat,
a breath before pushing
in. My moon-eyes stare
at the shock of the victim's
as their belly is hollowed,
blood swilling in the sink
as fingers reach in the cut
to polish the insides clean.

I wonder why that look of
panic? There is a pink lining
stitched in by spinal threads,
the tenderness under a coat
proving you were only dressed
in a glazed metallic shimmer
to impress the eye. The head
must go, and the dressage off
so I can go soak your flesh
in a much tastier puddle.

You stabbed my back.
You told that lie.
You messed it up.
You murdered me.
You made me die.

There is a misdeed where,
on a corner of Hunter Street,
a phone box sits in a puddle
like a flamingo in a storm,
yet it's not pink. It's a dull

shine with legs protruding
out of its sea, a lone oil rig
with an open mouth to enter
in which (you would hope!)
some black gold would pour

out of its receiver and say,
Press your fingers to me,
then my hand to your cheek
and I would stand there
drowned in those thoughts,

my feet also being rig stalks
as I would hold your hand
to my face, my other leaning
against your body, then only
to gather a simple “Hello.”