Untitled

Rationality swept aside,
brushed off like stray hairs that tease
my cheeks are flicked with the back of a
sausage-like hand,
Linkin Park after dark peeling from my nails.
Mr. Jones in the highest key
burst from my lungs at midnight
in the dark, senses ablaze,
just like that night on a manicured lawn.
A thickness in the air a heat in my chest
a pounding in my stomach and
the Devil in your smile.