nicotine picnic with a girl that tastes like the blood moon. i braid her fear into my hair in the evening and i smell her desire when i open my windows for air. the smoke lingers. i linger. with her sliding through my fingers, we intertwine, frosted glass winter time and ripe, warm, tomato vines. lovely screaming, rouged cheeks, candle wax dripping, dreaming, setting sail in an arctic sea of distaste and feel good vilms, drinking down cubic algorithms that make us grin i jump at the sound of glass hitting ground, smashing down, fractals scatter, gorgeous and violent shards of slick ice, ready to quick slice skin and bone alike. i love her bark and her bite
That is because a hyena is, in fact a cat! ”Oh, Glynn,” you say, “Feliforma is kind of a ways back there on the…” No! Cat is cat! I bet they sit in boxes, too.
