FROM, ELIAS

Am I worthy of a drunk text?


Do I deserve your camera’s flash, uncovering

voyeuristic photographs you take

of me sprawled

in the dregs of your thoughts?



/



I’ll be your wax statue, covered by lace wick;

you can fling that kerosene appliqué on your 

soot alter if you bring the flaming

vodka. So dip your tongue 

inside of my cherry

red perfume


and kiss me. At least miss me.



/



But I know that’s wishful thinking,

still 

was it your ashtray

thighs or my ashtray eyes,

soaked in Adam’s real ale 

or maybe His cherry vodka on ice,

that licked us to smoke before you could 


finish pouring gasoline

on my fishnet tights? Now I see

you like the sting of bleach and burning

tissue paper cherubs.



/



But for once I have the match.



//