I try to reach you by calling you “honey”
because I feel responsible for your decay. We are a select club of two
planning the end of the world in steps like jigsaw pieces
crawling toward a perfectly evil tableau montage picture
at the end.
I put your soft flesh in my mouth, coax you to rapture
make you a sandwich. Legs, fingers break off
who to fuck, who to eat. Cattle walk down the hall
oblivious to this religious movement we’ve started
in secret, you tell me you feel the weight of Armageddon
in the grooves in the floor, and every time the record needle skips.
pieces of God keep getting stuck in my hair
I keep trying to reach you through the grooves in the floor
wear a short skirt at lunch. There are too many mental checklists
to make, too many things to remember—
angels snap outside the window
bay like chained dogs
time is running out.