don't eat the flowers

In my chest, there are a thousand blossoms of venom holding springtime court, and outside is the hateful blue that locks out the sun, drugs line and form into dripping wrecks, turns asphalt into the skin on mephitic rivers of pudding. I had cooked, and how I had turned the fire up and attended the slaughter with lemon and salt, seared its skin like I longed to sear the skin of the boy in my kitchen, so tempting and warm that I opened the door to go smoke. even with the oven on, the aroma so thick and toothsome, I only cooked and ate, and I fed but never tasted him, and I struggled and burned, smoked and guttered right out. in the choked ember tint of such an evening the poison garden begs for wind so I slept with the window open; the kitchen went stony, the skin left lonely in the fridge. the lullalby is nasturtium and nightshade cackling at the sad excuse for day that follows, weak as dishwater and the grease of yesterday's attempts atop it. ponder, indeed, if there's any call to ever clean a kitchen again, if particular flowers could grow in a bombed-out stove, make for decent seasoning when properly dried...

>> fabula amoris sex in sententiis
>> scripta 6 dec MMXII
>> pro puero quo apud me cenandum vinit at basia mihi non tulit.