falling fastly

i always be falling for the ones

i can’t be having. i pluck a caterpillar and

thistle from the hillside.

you twin rhymes.

crumbling

again

the witches pass the eye amongst them

and stir the pot

treacherous seas of soup, swirling,

and a hunger for more than cake.

my heart, longing to honeycomb,

tornadoes once more.

tears the seams of its foundation

with the toothy pop

of snapping threads and

cracking teeth

and all the assumed fraying

that goes along with it.

CUPID THOU LOATHSOME CHERUB

I DESPISE THY PLUMP, MAGGOT-

LIKE, MEDDLING SOUL.

dido, build me a pyre.