Ad Lib Oil
Let’s play (a game) where you complete me
by replacing the escaped puzzle pieces
with fetuses forever lost at the grocers.
Maybe they will find you – “Oil on Aisle 6”.
Remember, Dear, your high-octane, flammable tears
that scorch like an elegy to the spark in your eye,
praising the limbs you have thinned into barcode lines.
You light my world, you (pseudonym for slut).
Stick to the list, (Name), and sallow the
emptiness: people become what they eat.
The bruises that fracking left we keep figurative.
I only am trying to settle the demand.
A (Hancock) will end the transaction like
shredded tire flourishes on the perforated line
tracing down the center thighway, towards this trap.
Ask the striper with an MD for plastic.
Baby, you look like a beautiful (lie).