I'm Sick of Kissing Lips

Tonight, I want to chop your pineapple.
I want to jiggle your flan with my
sticky, green, fertile mallets;
I will pour you pancakes
from spoiled, purple batter and
thwart your lilipads with
bullfrog noses.

I will suffocate your nicotine eyeballs
with lipstick pillows and
starfruit-flavored popsicles,
damp, leather petals that fall upon
your headstand;
I will bite like red wine or
sting like fresh daisies and onion tears.

All at once, you will catch my dying canary
between a tennis racket
and my resolve, or if
that is too far out of reach,
a coffee mug plastered with
riveted ferret wings,
buttercups, ammonium dichromate,
sex.

Afterwards, we will melt
into a gelatin puddle of pumpkin juice
and cotton balls, where the world will
circle us, rosebud jealous,
and we will dwell on the final wisps of
some sugary odor which sizzles
into everywhere with one
great
rollercoaster machine.

And I will fry your sofa with tender chicken digits.