Oblong myths of your unshaved chin
You don't dance with my drifting spectral imaginary self— and,

you don't kiss my self-imposed exile.
You promise in soggy declensions,

my poems are becoming German, their
bracken switchblade verbatim: nicht nicht nie nicht
crackling through my skull like logs on a expunged fire,

we'll tattoo the word smote
onto our groins; cunt cult, I will taste
the sharp knife on nails bluntness of your

I will position myself on top of you,

for something I don't have any more,

all myths and mayhem,
all miraculous mirages
meticulous metamorphoses

she makes due with nightmares
and transgression, each blip of self
reflection a hot coal on her tongue,

she is made for this—

made to be this broken;
this worse-off, she licks the wet glitter
of this betrayal from the dirty linoleum
bathroom floor, feels the impression
of it against her clammy forehead,

she is a trapped giggle,
caged somewhere between kiss and bite.