You stuck. Your fingers in 3 holes of
the moon; a bowling ball you hooked
down to where I’m standing
Me, damn-near blinded


You become. My three succulent holes
tumble chaotic, moonlit bruised
hooked from all yesterdays
blindly knocking back ghosts like whisky


Drunk, tied down by Orion’s belt
Las Tres Marias, my poison girdle
bites, up and down and in and out
I lick, you shout, muted black


Expanded, skins split, eviscerated
Stars searing eyes, smashed in
Collapsed lungs, breathless
Recycled nebulous waste. Us.

ML April 11 2018


5 thoughts on “Kaleidoscope

  1. Pingback: Day Twelve

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