Petite mort

Eight different functions half of them erratic

be gone I say, I’d rather spill my secret

into the caves of your rainbows, similar to those who visit you

at night

melting the gap of thine eyes, thine algae

I thaw myself and gasp for more of

the electric bread cutter

lewd exaltation by the malfunction smashing

the protective glass cutting me in two, halves of salted caramel sprinkled with heroine

there I lurk for a little longer

three different functions none of them erratic

thick, medium, thin

thin is the point where I start to drip, takes more to slash

(rarely fruits or bottles being dropped,

cheeky little deaths from all my slip and smash countless odds)

nape on fire, sandpaper eyeballs barely blinking

they gather around, my pheromones at the supermarket,

their natural habitat waiting for the miracle of

once it broke down after my first loaf, this is it now is the actual thrust

but they took it in for repairs hence we rode away

with my six different gears none of them iridescent

still moist, my fascia yearns

for a crashing into the pole

dozens of them, I map thoroughly with my panting and pelvis

let us choose one, God thy girl is electric thunder - praying now as if I was to be

a sacrifice.

Learnt praying and shaking and searching for you into the black hibiscus

a city-centre-tram-tracks takeaway, for my last rubbing

my back wheel stuck, my spine scratching

the surface of a hairy peach, I am almost there. Stay with me

to finish me up when I get back I boil water

for the eggs, with my eyes shut I can see my fingers

trespassing the pot’s barrier and scorching

how do you like it

duro, no functions, forged-welding iron and crossing for a heartbeat

to the other side.