For Good

I prefer that you not drag me
through your skanky allegories
of canker storms
a shiv in your bread basket
all lonesome and pitiful
oh sick little fungal heart
pulsing on the desert floor
oh the bullshit under your nails
turns the blisters on my body
into knobs on the radio
I won't tune you into this town
all glistening red and expectant
a moth tastes sweet on your lips:
the powdered syllables
make for luscious convulsions
I can feel you leaving
through my mouth.