Butter-fly fairies of August

Jack is the hobbit that doesn’t give a shit
that his dirty fangs are filtering the air
the levitation buried in ecstasy is important
when laughing, faced backwards,
sun dies for a fucking second though in that
moment of singularity
the opossum faces stop walking and concentrate
their no-shaped words on my skinny potbelly

on the constantly repaired pavements,
some red other blue,
slags offer him the already used flowers
kisses smelling like hormones
and jigsaws melt in his bitumen mind

for a freaking moment I felt
a déjà-vu

sun gave us a blowjob