broken bones and empty stomach

you taste like rotten honeysuckle
drawing down my spine like a dead
man's fingernail;

and you taste like blood and cedar
wood smoke that chokes my lungs
and closes my throat and makes my
toes cramp like cold water;

you skin tastes like paper set on fire,
and the light from the street lamps
makes your shoulders resemble violent
ocean waves; and my spine is the
craggy rocks that fall four thousand
feet into abyss.

you are the gravedigger and i am the
ancient human, and you'll tear the head
stone from my hands and throw it at the
moon,

your legs will crack and your thighs
will swell like flooded canyons, melt
like vanilla candles, and smell like
lavender virgins lost in the woods.

your arms feel like stone walls;

musical compositions on your back
and stomach muscles like a blind
musician;
and our elbows can match the notes
in scale like dogs screaming in soprano.

we can be the broken clock that beats
repetitively and sludge out oil the colour of
dead skies.

we are curses, we are slurs and profanities.