Broken mirrors in mudslide of cocaine
in your bathroom on laundered lingerie
folded up in rows. We laugh while neon
energy swarms in our vodka, sloe gin
fizz. As in chemical physics. As in:
“pass the dutchie on the left hand side, mon.”
Blood-shot eyes, I push the neon away.
Clone dead braincase. Rupturing our membrane.

Shatter the sink’s cold edge. Grab your hourglass
hips. Pull you in. Quintesensual skin.
Wober love-in. Doing lines off your ass.
Rubbing twenty fingers across your grin.
Down your neck. Across all that is thick
and plump. Chemicals make us fun and slick.