Ouroboros in Obsidian
| “…Mims,” She croons bluesy into the mic. A bar on Beale St., smoky & cloying, but for my cornher. I shine, radiance; bright like a brand new setting sun. And she reflects.
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Vicious verisimilitude; vicarious, violent vagina dentata. One of the two. In my mind’s eye, I’m we mendican(t) do it for herselves. Wholeor rides the Beast alone. Persnickety, per 3 beats per second.
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“Hey Festus,” I shout, “Hold my beer.” I backflip into the MeSheSheMe. Currents. Undertoe. On the barge, a guy-de-light. I doubt eyes, doubtwise, “Allk he haul.” Breath, gasp, I struggle for shwhore.
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Up the Peabody steps. Auburn haired & amber bocked. A taste of your ayahuasca brew. Our one, two. Vine of the soul. And we’re done, she left a note, “Had fun, don’t call –V.”
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Babbleon, boys. A need to know pose at my beau tree on the ridge. ALLWAYS ALLREAD unfulfilled, undone, undead. Hell in war shipped across the MeSheSheMe.
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Upon the MeSheSheMe banks. Auburn haired & amber bocked. A taste of her ayahuasca brew. Our one, two. Rope of the dead. I love you. A nameflame tattwoed on my right shoulder blade: V.
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Students:
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