Soda of Gomorrah

She was wearing a hornet’s nest in her hair again this evening, frail spidery wings, a Lepidoptera of creepy-crawlies and midges. I find her hair unsettling, her eyes too deeply set, her smile staff with excreta and seepage. I kissed her hard on the mouth, her chin flat against the corm of my cheek, the knot of my tongue finding purchase in the slur of her mouth. And me, lips prepuce fat, biting down hard on the manse of her jaw where the hinge meets the flywheel, her eyes rolling back into the clove of her forehead, a vacant desire behind the pineal gland just below the hypothalamus, sterile and Gomorrah.