butter

I have attached a lighter to my zipper,

when I piss the wheel sparks and ignites
a brief plastic flare of white pubes,
your necrotic fingers hold my balls, your nails
are complimentary and sticky. You hate avocados.
The stench is far enough away not to distract
from the corpses washed up in my mouth.

I compress poetry into urinal cakes, torn out pages

of stolen library books, my blood is neon pink
and sticky, it’s probably contagious. 
It is curatorial,  a vaporous beauty dissolving
into the animus of the sea.

This can of lighter fluid is ruined, it is

a breathing void laughing, the rust is transparent.
I can not burn anything beyond recognition.

.