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
and
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.
The Follies of a Postmodern Xennial 