2-11 Angel-Dusted

I have no idea how this one evolved, when I wrote it many months ago. Warped humor, I suppose.




and bath-salted,


he aimed a corkscrew into his palm

and twisted and twisted


until it screwed through

the dorsal skin nearly an inch—


like a badly botched titanium screw surgery—


and he reached for a bottle of wine


and I waited for the next twist.