Gorgeous beast,
are you
mere dream
to me
now, here,
heaving,
an ambrosia
of honey and salt,
hair splayed about my chest,
oh, so slight thump thump
heartbeat in your crimson cheek
settling into your
luscious tar pit
of ecstasy?
I want more
than the star essence of you.
I can make bones of vapor, flesh of mist.
So, fuck this punk hologram universe.
“Harvest Moon” is playing.
The kids are unconscious,
dream of Barbie Dreamhouse;
a Faberge egg within a Faberge egg of illusion.
I yearn for a joint
and a motorcycle
that outruns death.
Shiksa Codesmith Yahwey
give us
the full delusion
of vivid self.
After all,
we are only
middle-aged
once.