Breathe, star child; we will leave Jupiter
this gaseous coagula, and migrate to Brighton

like poisoned pigeons who have quit carrying
the souls of those that smear dysphoria blue

across epileptic bodies. Planted in a soil of worms
this place creeps in gardens of boys and girls, 

mildewy, an acidic mass seduction, a juicery
that only blends strawberry. This was our honeymoon suite.

Cry love; it’s okay. Every drop is a kick in their teeth,
an angelic shattering. Their tongues are running down their throats.