À Ꮮ Ꭺ m Ꮎ Ꭰ Ꭼ


“Why does an apple crumble at the sight of cream?” 
Anthony T. Hincks


I smell like lust
I’m also a creature
Habitually cleaning itself

Charcoal is now a thing
We need a conduit
For our burns
A tray for our ashes
A purse to throw smoke
Some kind of sense
In your face

I pray in lust
I’m also a creature
Habitually orgasming itself
On its knees

Smelling awful similar
To Heaven and Hell
Like Roses and
Grandma’s Apple Pie
Served with eggs
And drizzled with
Crystallized semen

Or like the chalice
Mom drinks from after
Smoking Dad’s cigars