You
is were and ever shall be delicious
I taste your delicate sin along my forked tongue.
I hold one hum
from that gentle pursed-lip frown
and i mold a porcelain crown
for the shoebox princess to sport.
the clown at your court
the suite to your song
no wonder i don't know the words
but I can still sing along.
in this abscess of your absence
there's a hollow prolonged
across whose pulled flesh
my wrinkled digits beat out the rhythm.
I'll weave it in pagan parades
open heart, fresh blood on display
and you'll pass by
with a slanted eye
and that same frown
drawn
through which no words can escape.
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