Spice undelighted
Unrequited
Somehow
Doused in dead things
And wriggling
Worms
Consuming the flesh
That held so little
For anyone
Slip you on down
You are so
Classically
Fuckable
So I’d be delighted
But I’ll have to burn the planet
Afterwards
Spoon me
For a while
It’s a delicate operation
Involving the transfer
Of tendrils
To the earth
And
So it goes
Nothing grows back
Covering holes
But you know
It’ll be okay
Just erect this
“No entry”
Sign
On your way out