Here in the after-sense
dragonflies swarm over lava ponds
bleeding heat into open mouths - the closest thing we have for love.
Rocks dance red-purple down grasshopper trees
where the drooling breath of a pedophile sun pants
over this lolita wasteland of rolling tongues and salted sunset.
Here between the bush and the fire
I rest my head to masturbate with delicious syrupy sins
while you undress for my pleasure and fan me with tangerine wings.
Primary signs
are burnt leaves,
velvet ash snoring
in the hollow of your tongue.
When you speak,
smoked salmon putrefies
in your breath.
Secondary signs include
powdered feet
that move like red ants,
decapitated lovers
with multiple wombs for heads,
bears lapping thirst
from the beaks of dead pelicans.
The end comes
in the form of a snail trailing
slime across your eyes -
avalanche enough
to bury all tied llamas
in your part of the Andes,
fill mouth and ears
with the whiteness
of drowned flesh.