HONEY CRASH

Harpiks som honning
dryppende fra mine fingerspidser

Står som forstenet og
ser dråberne ramme gulvet

Med et brag
glas mod sten lyder det

Farven som løber er
den af dine pupiller

OF MY SKIN

I'll just have that
master of none
hanging around
my neck
in the afternoon sun
it will look like
a thin chain of
silver

Small pearls of metal
dripped 'round my
throat

It will move and
be slightly cold
it will never get the
temperature of me
of my skin