Kingmaker. White wine vinegar massacre.
That’s what you are, Kerosene
And that’s what you do when you sculpt the world
Like it’s your plasticine, your toy.
Your five-billion-year-old bell boy
On crooked knee by your calves
Waiting to lift the sky on your command.
And you’re not promising him El Dorado, or any land
For that matter. It’s not as though
You’re showing him anything he wants to know. No.
I know you pay your footstools with your hands
A doorstop for a slap, and an hourglass for a dance.
They’re bowed heads for you – didn’t stand a chance. Be a
Nutcracker girl, making mountains out of mornings
Melt a cold sunset with Icarus wings,
Rearranging the trophies on your bookshelf
Keep smiling your liqueur-sweet smile, Kerosene, and
Brace yourself.
For those that carve kings from kerosene

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