Terrible blonde volcano girl.
She is the terrible blonde volcano girl,
Mesmerised by hips and silver.
She is the working machine of night.
She is the reject-button configuration of me.
I am not the blonde reconfiguration button of me.
I am not the.
I am not the recon.
She shakes her visible heresies,
She makes predictions that cannot be lava.
She is scrimmage and bullet rocks,
Hurtling down Etna tear-cheeks.
I love the Acklash part of me,
She is blonde,
And volcano girl.
I am not blonde,
But dark and green.
People run from me,
Hot ashes and menstrual molten effluvia,
Dripping and scald-leg pain.
I don't look like Acklash,
But she is a reconfiguration button,
An orgone accumulator of my terrible need.