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Licorice Whip

My mouth is filled with sharp words,
facets of glass. Fragments of ice
and strong alcohol disguised by sweet cream.
I stir the spiked drink.

In facets of glass, fragments of ice
become crushed into shards or melt.
I stir the spiked drink.
I unhinge my beaded tongue.

Become crushed into shards or melt
as I speak rusty hooks, jeweled daggers, dark candy.
I unhinge my beaded tongue.
A braided strand dangles down my back like a whip.

Rusty hooks, jeweled daggers, dark candy
like black licorice. An acquired taste.
A braided strand dangles down my back like a whip.
Artificed rivulets drip off my fingertips

like black licorice. An acquired taste.
When I lick a hard candy stick into a dangerous point,
artificed rivulets drip off my fingertips
and stain the too-smooth surface.

I lick a hard candy stick into a dangerous point.
Sometimes you should let yourself be kissed just to
stain the too-smooth surface;
just to see what happens next.

Sometimes you should let yourself be kissed just to
taste a stronger drink;
just to see what happens next.
Add an ingredient that rattles the blender.

If you want to taste a stronger drink,
open your mouth when your tongue feels metallic.
Add an ingredient that rattles the blender.
Blades. The sound of resistance.

Open your mouth when your tongue feels metallic.
Purr like a cross between sleek cat and steely machine.
Blades. The sound of resistance
as the ice is crushed into hard candy shards.

I purr like a cross between sleek cat and steely machine.
I pour strong alcohol disguised by sweet cream.
The ice is crushed into hard candy shards.
My mouth is filled with sharp words.

~ For K ~

Winter made you drunk-storm
beautiful, Sophia, acoustic diamond-lick
hair drifting like a hidden Picasso
ocean novel, several mad needs
hazel-brown and spider shaded.

Rain-tap 2am metal steps leading
to your strife/humming/sung
apartment are sex-sugar crawling,
primal vein-gnawing,
your fabric-eye hips over
my manacled mouth like black
key piano slamming.

There are no antibiotics in your
wrist-snap literature, only bird-mile
suns waiting for color blindness,
harp-desperate red children
with yellow painted fingers whispering,
crying for joy and madness.