BY HANNAH HAZY
I sit atop a wooden throne, seizing every passing glance
Come. Sit down, kick back, relax—
It’s the same old song and dance.
A honeycombed marsupial pouch, brimmed with aromatic herbs
Rays illume the oily coils that
Watermark my curves.
I’m a King and you’re my queen, made to open your third eye
I’ve been blown by all your friends
I guess that makes me bi.
Let me stimulate your senses, listen to my belly rumble
And I’ll be there to comfort you when
Your world starts to crumble.
Your grasp tightens round my neck— our lips, at long last, intertwine
Suck harder— harder— harder, still—
Make a turbine of my spine.
Cosmos churn inside your brain; you tell deep, prophetic thoughts
You flick the lighter once again—
Well, shit. You’re out of pot.