152

There was a taste of honey on the tongue

punctured last week by the supple forceps
with two diamond tips, and my iron lung
banged out like a graph scattered with rosehips:
True intentions bulge in the summer flange
like intestines coiled out in a roulette;
as we spin we determine the midrange,
filling out the space, dementedly  wet:
I was bottled like fluid with an eye
that saw stones as I leaked out fresh flavors;
I saw genders passive and pigments die,
dropped like flies around their putrid saviors:
And I can say that I'm feelin' winsome,
though I just "lost one" that faded crimson. 
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