Sunken Ships

Sticky bun heart of contempt, a drizzle
of honey caught in between sweet fingers
and doughy pitchforks to poke and sizzle
between thoughts of a non-love that lingers

for sadistic scrawlings on salty wounds
and shouts from a heart that saves skin and humiliation
under nails by the pounds
for red cheeks and quiet souls that turn blue

Shall we dance in this pool of confusion?
Beating flows from ruptured valves swim at our
feet, rushing pieces of collected allusions
to the soles, ready to puncture and scar

while we hold hands until we fall in love…
is this the ecstasy lovers speak of?