You were born to be a Damocles.
It’s in your name / you share the same
snake-like entendre     you lure, into love
and linger the sword of your lust, provoking
strokes of luck into fire and your rotting teeth
grind on spongy hearts like punch-drunk birds of prey

At dusk, your hands spring into fever / your mouths
(you have seven) sing communion into the chasm
where you once left my swollen virginity and your
stolen identity / the back of you sprawls,
shoulders collapse, wide-winged and white dust
spilling from my chest cavity as you crack my soul
in half in the malevolent sleuth of your unhinged jaw

I wait to be swallowed / as all other men / they wait
for your cataclysm, the cautionary verb of your
intimidation, the missing N – a symbol that slides

from your thenar like Judas hiding inside a throat,
consuming fates made of flowers you plucked off 
the flats of my feet as I appear next to you / a wraith

Your anatomy is nothing more than an anecdote / and
sleepless allegory


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