Checkmate

Maybe I’ll lick my savage knuckles or shoot arrows at the sun And if our anonymous devils dance after slipping on their potential tap shoes we might play the waiting game they’ll click click away as paparazzi cameras flash phosphorescent lights and strip us down to our Botoxed skin. Maybe our ethereal moon winks its coy smile as our clouds drip crumbs and I might vanish in the fog, consuming time. But if she should flush pink and bittersweet, dices might roll —Vegas gambling with Fate’s silver dollars— and chess pieces might move forward, pawns played on black and white squares hypnotic sea anemones breathing ‘Cause here’s my King and Queen, they might say, and they’re Bigger and Better than yours. But possibly they’re not quite looking at the game, eyes half-glued to the metal mechanics of their phones click-clicking like ponies prancing as they speak revolving words. Maybe fold forth copper eyelids salty earlobes perhaps lick the sugar from the celestial concrete where our shoes erase our corrupt footprints. And will we open? maybe. then suddenly— Checkmate! Maybe this overdose is safely diagnosed and snapping ribbons frayed this drug we call love, possibly it’s all about who might be most comatose, where we sleep in earbuds, implants, spray tans and perhaps our time’s running out, and maybe I’ll count your breaths, your puffs of silver cigarette smoke that could be tarring your lungs and lips as I kiss you I might taste your inner clock a stopwatch counting down: tick tock: consuming your time with me, swallowing, stealing Checkmate. god’s winning.