French Candy & Cigarettes

“Yes, I have lived far too long
on French candy and cigarettes.”
She talked the next step in evolution,
and I had to understand her beast
to entirely new species, the one
breeding all the best advantages
any animal’s ever had.
“Sense is a bad neighborhood.
We only know as savages.”
And my arms drooped down, longer,
wrists thicker, brow more pronounced
as some sort of eroded rock outcrop,
hair sprouting like it sought sunlight.
When she checked her phone,
I pictured the king of her tribe,
and how he glowed, and told her all
the secret meeting places, and promised
her the favored princess treatment.
You guys go on and never die,
I thought, hoping it’s more than talk,
and the borders and boundaries I felt
were real, and breakable. Just disappear
into your new dimension, stepping
inside that room of light that lands for you,
the ones who engineered foreverness.
But, if you want to fuck,
no joke here, I can handle that.
Get you back to the swamp mud,
and the moonlight that takes a swing
and knocks you out, until your skin
is calling out to all your friends
about the earthquake it enfolds,
and how they all have to try this!
My worry is you’d never leave
the manpack again, choose instead
to live and die too young, too rough,
with the prehistoric rest of us.