Propped-up mirror

still the puncture-stick drills an invisible hole in my buckle. near the pulp i cringe. scrape, scrape, mango aftertaste so sweet and cold can't put your tongue there - river, you say, flood me, i beg. sticking to frozen surface. this woman curls her hair and smooths the wrinkles from her dickie's cocktail dress, ready for a slosh of bloody mary on the lap and a squishy rub-down of liquid, all night, glitter-less garage bands hammering golden cymbals

it's not randy to tie this against the breast so taut; i know, silk black moon with full heels parading our circuits - canned peach behind tropical bones and scientific code names, i am unabridged here and you've coated all these particles with the silicon, microprocessor is complex, we must lace words with poison to make impeccable soup

we could get a hammock on a white beach like i mentioned before, where there are little patches of seagrass along the dunes that water bugs snatch at, near jelly fish graveyards... and it'll be evening and we'll just sit there flipping bottlecaps until we're kicked off the beach for obscene ludeness

dried up wings in the hotel, can you smell the microwave? cool a glazed plate in the window, as laundry sails out behind power lines and radio towers, we've had our night of champagne fetish between the filligree limelight - oh yes barstool, that means you. morning is clean and our skin is not. i've been pinned but not to the point of breakage...oh, bride, me.

i want to be the choker with the bell on it, saucy vixen words pouring like morton salt - no butter sunbeams at 2pm, it all fit onto the bread slice, and we speak words like "triste" and "une requiete" and make up dictionaries as we go, ten gallon hat filled with leftover tequila, your lips are gossamer against paper like so many cups of sleeping aid and ink