He is arterial,
in the cell-bulging way,
splintering off into capillary moments—
plot-points roll down his skin,
exuded by him to keep his internal temp. a crystalizing fuck yeah.
his dimples tell dirty jokes,
his eyes write theses,
his voice is the sound of thunder on a clear day–
lighting piercing a snowstorm,
smoke without fire,
a third-hand desciple that knows it’s shit.
God, I want to fuck him.
