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Kitschen sink

by Laura Doom

One moment of conception
gives a pyromantic kick
that bursts into a lick
of flame; it bears my name
and screams its gift for dreams
that put euphoria to shame.

I milk it, tease it
push and squeeze it
nothing is too good, too much
too lavish to escape my clutch
and as it grows, it wants to play
the carnivore, but tooth decay
begins to bite; this monster's lost my appetite.

So now it only stays afloat
on polysaturated bloat;
a tacky beast, with no defence
against back-handed compliments
like classic "Babe, that's really sick"
or "Hey, will that thing suck my dick?"

My next will be submersible;
this pronoun, too impersonal
to represent a swell of pride,
has merely overturned the tide
that should have drowned its sallow sound
before the torment of inception.

02/24/2015

Author's Note:
going under

Posted on 02/24/2015
Copyright © 2024 Laura Doom

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