dollar-store condoms

There’s watermelon sunsets
in my peripheral vision,
but I’m far-sighted,
and it might be
four-twenty clouds
and a nude Mary Jane
tucked between my thighs.

Maybe I’ll find the pieces
to aborted babies
and dollar-store condoms
to fit in my pocket,
while the raunchy boy bands
play with their dicks
in tandem
with falling dandruff.

While my soul reaches
for a virus,
my kleptomaniac hands
lust for a carbon footprint
to scrape off the bottom
of the next abyssal zone
somewhere.

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