Nicholas Alti
Twinkle toes don’t taste good this year,
too much crunch. Pulp. Plus, no rot yet.
My hunch: fiddlesticks in our micro-plastic.
This can go one of two ways: tongue or cheek.
You want to go blow for blow? What kind
of sexy threat is that? Don’t hurt me! Harm me.
I’ve got a bone to rip from you. Hit you with.
So many wells left to poison, cuts to kiss bitter.
This was probably inevitable. A tough case: sweet,
pitch black plasma, yes, but only light grey plague.
Contamination is a measure of chance. Hypnosis.
We can go delicate. We can make a moment.
I thought you wanted to get smothered
in honey, not insect repellent. Sorry, tombstone.
Now, your vision should be blurring. Nauseous?
The horsemen storm behind you, bearing lances.
I just wanted to befriend. You look yum.
Don’t go—I just want to sear you briefly.
From rural Michigan, NICHOLAS ALTI is a bartender in Atlanta who holds an MFA from the University of Alabama. He is interested in absurdity, silliness, and surrealism. His poetry is in Burial Books Blog, 7th-Circle Pyrite, Star*Line, Horror Sleaze Trash, and his website is 3bluntzatonce.com.