Burning candle
made of glass.
Implosion,
explosion...
ripping your skin.

Saturn swinging
a hula hoop
on her hips
as her lips
yield
to
Pluto's
toxic tongue.

melded together and approaching atmosphere
spiraling errantly
into
oblivious obscurity
blooming into the constellations
tasting olympus and breathing in the sun
unknowingly cradled in Atlas' quaking shoulders

Claws 

grip

thighs,

plump

the

flesh.


Needle tips

trace

figure eights.


tearing furrowed gashes
into the flesh
of
fragile transcendance
lungs constricting
in infernal exstacy
gliding along the edges of
insatiable silence

hands lashed to walls
clad in lightening
and
lips bound by
poison prose kisses


Raised cain,

deep set stain.

The injection?

An infection.


She

will

always

get

what

she 

wants.