Impulse control crumbles like stale bread

when the loins burn to the point of baking.

This is when the brain becomes a trickster,

a kitsune, projecting images


falsities of a pornographic Wonderland.

The looking glass is scratched and smudged.

My mind is gassed as my head floats

away, watching you

scorch the streets and leaving

a patchwork quilt of ash and memories

on the ground.

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