Frosting girlhood angst with synesthesia
Your arousal slaps against the chilly skin of my shivering naivety like black nylon spandex on cellulite.
The sun’s blaze writes as smooth and creamy as chalk on blackboard, against your eyebrows.
Gouge out the olfactory that wrinkles and smears my opinions.
I’ll rest my eyes into the palms of my pigtails like they’re bunny ears.
Cause my sensibilities under peach curtain sunshine bring out my eyebags, the extra cheek fat and that one neglected tooth.
Nefarious, you make it sound like a smell, a perfume I’ve dipped each insecure groin of my deniability in, a hairy bounty in an armpit’s oasis.
So, swirl and stir at the iridescence of my actual reflection, like jelly honey combed through by a wooden comb in one of those cereal advertisements, and swirl at the way I should and do smell and sniff at you.
“Woman-”
From a “cheeky twinkle-eyed girl,” cuddly with a grazing laziness like a “baby cow.”
And woman, did I become, you, prodding and chewing on the way my words ripen against my face and intentions like they were from a tangy midnight tropical pineapple roast, prodded by toothpicks at each hexagonal chunk, garnish and all.
Well, when you first plopped it into your grocery basket, did you speak to it, like chickens in their coops before they’re pastured by their blades into one of your Styrofoam cutlets? Maybe do the other time, instead of glossing over the head through the plastic, for a balmy, hearty, Caucasian tan and worms.
Nefarious, cruel you say, a meandering, abandoned woman like me has curdled to be? Well, I still do smell like barbie groin, carved underwear, Mattel ecstatic, arousal still static. I stick out my tongue for a meandering boy, to tread on its arched path, like an amusement park’s slapstick clown entrance.
My hair and its wavy knots turn into popcorn, salty, greasy with dandruff and sweat. I turn to the flowers painted on my pencils and ones that melt on birthday cakes or ones stitched on my cream curtains for television while munching on textile like sour patch and licorice sticks, the green tea is hazy and foggy enough in its crudeness, to lay against my kinky brain’s tongue, which is usually bitten out of behavioral sight when parched for a warm, fermenting foamy beer out of neon green bottles or old cork mingled wine that strip their caps like bikinis on beach trodden beach towels.
I hope it’s enough to shudder, shrivel, gasp, itch and squirm at, now that you, hands tied and laid like a barbarian’s victory meal on a bamboo pole, are carried into the insides of my polite quiet, feasting the famished eyes of its uvula.
The very polite nervous, that you cuddled like a teddy bear, whose insides are sewn by fur and plastic gleaming eyes in ambiguous bliss.
Now that you’ve reached the cotton or the beans that you thought you felt through the fur, you find it pudgy with melodramatic electric guitar riffs in depths of pungency, running like fleshy streams of bodily fluids.
I bet every eyebrow, everything you’re dropped or carried into is an allegory, propaganda to my nefarious insolence, that now as you watch, is on pencil legs, sharpener stomach, eraser cheeks, wearing fishnets, latex, makeup that draws fake moles like pepper balls in fried chicken cutlets of your Styrofoam choosing.
Frankenstein, make devour merry and rational, like fleshy sentiment of birth curdles.
Blow on your blunt now to put out the compulsive spikes of flame, where you just lit it, for the poker card wrap to wilt and shrink (daisy gay and all), close enough, that the orange temper grazes your thumbs, enough to render.
