I missed the eggs– bound together, seeping into that smashed sink. Too low to see, as my foot- further smashing- displaced them. (I was looking towards the dusty ceiling, busy inhaling a witbier). I swear It was the candlelight, my, or another fluffy collar that got me; started to form a string to lead me from my usual rut. A rut, from which to beg for another rut, a nicer pit, my frigid bedroom.

I was up & frostbit/ burning incense– my futile attempt to summon warmth from scent. my reviews are muttered-— I love Jasmine— I hate Jasmine— I hate flowers without stems– I love the smell of sex– my crown Jewels are all those risky animalics— in my box, they’re stinking— they reek in red— at the club,-I’m drinking— they’re plumes of skanky sillage.— whoever gets near me won’t know the difference— Who-ever gets near me will know– just

exactly where to plot the attraction, &—

when it may macerate,

turn to disgust.