There it is, that
pulsing magma that
dizzying charcoal that
deep, dark-black liquid
brewing grossly,
gaining consciousness
like a long-silent soul
when you polish the oil-lamp
but this one–
this one it doesn’t spring from
the spout
it doesn’t
burst from the seams
or drizzle to the floor like
it just
sticks inside
my ribs
telling me–
you’d better
open your fucking mouth.

Violent silence
Screeches tangerine
Like a bone-jagged zap down the jawline.
When your eyes snag mine, hook-lining,
A last moth-winged utter
dissolves into an Aurora, a finger-
Prick drawing blood,
Crawling the back of my throat.

You’ve miraged from
Phantasmal hot coals, the vapor
Pulsing my brain,
Startlingly flesh and bones and scattering flying things—