“Let Me Have”

She was inside of him,

clutching his ribs for support.

He didn’t want her there.

She made him a machine,

a creature of habit.

This sad discord,

shifting to a loud quartet.

He dragged her to the bonfire

and the flames were screaming,

lonely and strange.

Her hair caught first,

then her rosebud mouth.

He fell to his knees.

The devil was watching.

“Through My Fingers”

Close it.

The door,

the one with the crystal knob.

You shouldn’t watch this part.

Your sister,

mother,

lover,

brushing their teeth with red paste.

A thighbone,

cracked in two:

a jewelry box.

The ballerina who broke her legs,

lying in the bathtub,

her bun undone.

The curtains are yellow,

and your wrists are pink,

pressed against the glass.

Make a wish.

“Gross Debauchery”

It was a grotesque party, so by definition it was wonderful.

And by wonderful I mean full of wonders, the likes of which the world cannot even begin to appreciate.

Acrobats writhed and waltzed with the cruel atmosphere, suspended by dark silks and iron rings. They moved to their own rhythm, their own sound.

Dancers, the acrobats’ kin, moved beneath them in a tangled mess of limbs, lips, wings, and cloth. They cavorted in such a disconcerting manner, creating a beautiful bastard of a time.

Music was relative, coarse ballads mingling with privileged sonnets and fast tempos giving way to lethargic pauses. The result was an irregular threat, a frightening pulse that kept the affair at large.

There was no distinguishable furniture to speak of, only a lone stone table set apart from the glaring revelry. It was laden with food that turned to ash in your mouth.

The only source of light came from a single bulb, amidst the acrobats; large enough to cast a muffled glow, but small enough to welcome darkness,

an old friend.