Black Butterflies

Le Papillon Noir
JCD Kerwin

I want to cake my eyes in eyeliner
and have it smudge black blots
into my retinas.

I want to drink battery acid,
exhale fire, and
run flat-out for miles
before I vaporize.

I want to make my fingertips
speed like bikers
across a guitar’s neck
and have the world
scream my name
like I’m fucking its brain.

I want people to call me god
when I’m licking my lips
and shouting rhymes
into a microphone
with my eyes closed.

I want to be
a psychotic entertainer,
making words out of fire
like I’m a mastermind
hyped up on amphetamines
and painkillers.

I want to paint naked
at midnights,
abdominal muscles throbbing
with each brush-stroke,
and acrylics dripping
down to my toes.

I want people to gaze
at my masterpiece
and see me,
reflected like lighting
in glass clouds.

I want to be Oblivion
in thunderstorms
and create magic
with my heartbeats.

I want to fly
like butterflies
when they’re getting
ready to die:
headstrong and determined
to leave a mark
before they’re gone.

I want to be.
Want to be.
Want to be.
Your fucking papillon.

July, 2011

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