she spends her time
in thin grooved dimes,
swerving along an irreversible path.
crank,
crank,
she empties herself
into the teeth of cogs,
shoving one upon another
in that crowd of metallic, serriform aftertaste.
i'll summersault over.
i can't help myself. please,
chew on my mind
mold me with your tongue
and fill me with you.
and if i don't make your perfect foil,
you're more than welcome to brush off the polyol
and spit me out on the asphalt outside.