(there will be a funny version of this to match the title, eventually, I promise)
you can hear him sucking if you listen closely enough
it's between the florid lines of prose
which really don't make a lot of sense if your eyes aren't bloodshot
blood
he's out for the blood of uterus after uterus
troubled by the toilet paper dolls they're buried inside
cutting themselves free of each other
he can't help himself
plumbing third dog leg style
the only extension left without a numbed nerve
they don't understand
he's trying to make art with their spirits
jackson pollack splatter, he's just collecting blends for the art
drunk blind
no longer remembering who, what, where when
it's all puzzle pieces
and he's lost himself to jigsaw
vampire
he left his body a long time ago
gave it up to fluids, pursuit, night moves
he's what james caroline called
"a ballad for falling"
though he is more like opera
as he grabs shovel handles
digging for deeper graves
to sleep in, blot out the sun
or insomnia
because accountability is a bitch
many of them
with names
faces emerging through discarded tissue shrouds
their uteruses now wandering
and he's so addicted
he can't help but still smell their blood
mistake it for love
want to suck
the life out of them
a lestat
he's given himself up
to ego
monster with an audience
twittering with claps and, like, omgs
but he imagines we can't see
as though his interior decay
doesn't move with arms and legs
locks loose
unhinging
tricks nobody with a straight face
there are some things
pretty skin
elbow from ass
just can't hide
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