Cream-puff beige skin
Tough, like sugared cinnamon
Dusting soft, sticky-sweet dough
Left to harden on a counter
Formed by sun-bleached,
Dry white bones.

Black-light shining,
Dead skin sparkles
On soft crushed velvet
And boots glisten-gleam-shine
With every shift and every step
He contemplates or halfway takes.

Parted lips like
Bloody raspberry roses
That bloom towards heaven,
Then bow down quickly
To hide from the glow-orb
That taunts them from the sky.

Feathery eyebrows dart up,
Plunge down,
Like furry vamp-bats
Chasing one another
With mindless abandon
Through the depths
Of home-sweet-caves.
Were I a moth, I’d
Lead the chase,
And tempt the hunt with promise
Of rushing blood and much good fun.

Can’t you feel it
When you look at him?
That gorgeous flow of taste
That touches both your tongue and soul.
It’s a blood-rush, drug-rush,
Adrenaline-rush…
But it’s also so much more.

Touch him.
Can’t you feel it?
It possesses me every time he passes by,
Every time I turn my head
And catch a glimpse
Of what I most want to see.
Now I always feel it.
It’s running through my veins,
Echoing through my mind,
Consuming me inch by inch.

You should feel it!
Touch me; let me pass it on.
This is something I must share.
Take a piece,
Then share it with your own.
Spread it, make it real.
Can’t you feel it?
I’m going crazy.

Can’t you feel it?