by Chris Butler
I grant you permission
to be the whore of my heart,
bullshitting circles over my
chest as you play the dart,
a carnivore feasting on
organs crystallized hard,
seated in a fancy restaurant
wrapped with fine art,
expressing our satisfaction
with cigarette sparks
and lukewarm farts,
before the waitress
snaps the plastic credit
of low score cards,
then I must begin again
from the start.
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