While fucking on the chaise
covered in a purple French toile
sans the lace of Baudelaire's & Jeanne's
I ask about the end of the world
to which you reply "his coat has gone black
drained of all the blues & greens."
I understand but consider speaking directly
to the silver satellite circling
your head and interfering
with the normal static of your amber eyes
which seem gone because you have exploded
into a cloud of drunken stars. I'm rowing the dinghy
through the crumbling gate
into the moat
past the teal dragon in order to save
the princess who doesn't even exist.
And you, of course, understand
because of your lineage
and form yourself into a sphere
I shorten the lines so as not to pull up all the stuff stuck in Alice's hole. Drink me, Eat Me, Queen of Hearts
etc and so on. "Who wants a tea party when you can drink whiskey?"
you ask though you don't
even like oysters.
I'm covered in glitter. The stereo is stuck.
The same song plays for endless, imaginary, violet-colored hours.
You return to form and I stroke your hair.
Jesus wasn't God's son.
I don't want to die