Caramel Butter Bunny
Caramel butter bunny, with her plastic strawberry snout, huffed the eczema leather of my backpack, rolled a tootsie blunt stuffed with plastic beads and charms glued to dollar store kiddie hairclips and melted eclairs underneath the soles of somebody’s ripped pockets,
Pockets with ringworm stitches like the insides of your cotton gut shriveled into your newspaper-stuffed cheeks, caramel butter bunny.
Caramel butter bunny, you’re chafing the thighs of a freezer’s over-plagued Styrofoam teeth with a fried cook’s tool for an apron pocket dentist. Your plastic black eyes go in diameters of shaded hazelnut eclipses, like invasive birthmarks on you. If you is the butterscotch caramel drizzle fur, darker for your head and lighter and more mocha for your cloth hanger, intermittent fasting, fried chicken booger rolling chews.
Caramel Butter Bunny, your kidney-sewn cellulite paws stuff your chipmunk cheeks with acorns of a dramatic, seven-year-old little girl in rouge and stiletto enunciations,
I’ll get you bedsheets and sticky pickled against the floor like chewed gum marshmallow clouds as training bras from a sweaty chewing gum scrap TJ Max’s sales rack, in my clonazepam motherhood, and I’ll watch you unfurl and mow your cellulite against a mirror taller than your Christian gravity or Hindu population religion of more eight-dollar stuffies on branches of metal chipped store racks, of a grocery store Brahma.
So, have eyes, have eyebrows, have a bank account’s outstanding rebellion of hope or a debt of greasy submission in turmeric clothes, as the computer screen balances and swings a dollop of sorbet light as mundane of an emotiveness as if from an asylum grid’s silicone paralysis on that black pupil plate bulging out of the tabletop of your furrows.
