Kisses like Little Fists

Love like lacquer on a lion’s lips,
I throw up some daggers, eyes stabbing
My self-satisfied Adonis in his

Who could prowl my thigh’s alleys
In a Jaguar sleeker than his?
All steel, gun barrel genteel, attitude, hips

Without god or guardian, an island
Republic of Letters I’ve never sent
Suddenly relevant to this man

Opens my heart and rips, kisses
Like little fists, tonguing ink so muddy
A puddle bruises my body, bleeding evidence

A feast of fears off of which to feed
As the skeleton of hope appears in a suicide
Pose, chattering a love that could’ve been

But never is, saying what shouldn’t
Since heaven couldn’t heal his sidelong glances
Striking my soul like a sword from within

We wear death sentence orange as we peel
Away our ideals in slumping stride on our march
To gallows outside, unphased by dawn’s strobing light

I ask, “Does it get better than this?”
And, “It doesn’t,” he replies; the suit of cigarettes
One-eyeing this jack trading his pack of lies

Sweeps the floor’s white noise with sugared lips;
My replica in his belly sticking to Adam’s
Ribs burns, blackens, but makes no promises.