nietzsche

lockbox.

you're pretty.
like fresh red blood
pooling on white tile, pretty.
look, touch, wet hands. mine.
you're pretty, got that dark concrete
rust and water drip kind of pretty.
that make you want to load the barrel
twist and smooth finger flick the trigger.
got the desire all crawling in snake belly
writhing feeling the dripping
moving over the pounds of wasted flesh
air pop and pollution come hither stare.

you're pretty.
kind of like walking
into a set trap
knawing off your own foot
to save the hare kind of
rabbit fur and dandelion, pretty.
pink nose twitch and switch swish.
the kind of pretty that makes
my veins dance the samba
kind of a knee jerk
backbend let me see your teeth break
curb stomp and slick pavement, pretty.
no matter where you are my brain pockets
bubble in mourning of each word
escaping those dark wine lips
escaping into a pink ear (that's not mine).
rip rip rip.
I'll steal them all.

very pretty, yes.
i tell them, baby doll eyes glisten
a little lemonade maker in white.
i tell them, shhh
he's watching.
through my fingers, voyeur
and black lipstick choke hold.
yes, yes.
you're pretty.
seeing those eyes for the first time
the way they slide around
squish, squish i feel bubblegum
blow 'em up and spit 'em out.
keep them in a box.

pretty boy.
the kind that makes your throat itch
scratch scratch razor streets to go down.
the kind that rips at your ribcage
bones crunch and sweet melody
erupt smack against the walls
i think my spine is getting away
with murder, yes
and the life expectancy of this thought
dies to 0.
I will paint it clean.
let them see, your pretty face
know that I did it for you.
paint it wide and sharp
remove a couple toes
put them under your pillow.
kiss goodnight and play corpse.

I told you, you are pretty.
I told you, I would come.
fight flame with metal keys
rolling around under my skin
I will spill blood
sweet morning tea
spill clean brass keys
into your drink.
have you sip the brew
until your lockbox chest opens
and I can see the little people in your town
watching the sunrise
and counting down the minutes
until our lips cause their apocalypse.

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