the lord of flies wears a flower crown

the watchful third eye from the wrinkled bedsheets

the crescent moon; she despises her embodied stereotypes

she begs art for a form, the universe for the raw meat bones

the strapped heel and his arm tattooed with maggots

she is electromagnetic heat sensor

he is rock like; devoid

she is unique become same

he is shape shifter

guttural engines between the fingers

flying over the rust

she’s asking for attention in the car

tightening the hip bone skirt, using the eyes again

practiced placement of scarves

his lost gloves are finding their way home

on the door’s cold handle.


2 thoughts on “lord of the flies

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