Drunk Butterflies Poem by Yiling Ding

If the butterfly had a neck,
it would stretch it out long and thin
and saturate its senses
with painfully blissful heat,
and soak in the heady smoke of
pungent roses and burning poppies.
Whilst its marvellous, jeweled wings
are caught up in a sticky sugar web,
left there to melt into firey hell,
it will remain captivated, drunk
with the disgustingly delicious incense
that creates
the most beautiful illusions.

Even the pain of its corroding body
is an overwhelming orgasm
that draws it in, like moth to flame,
unable to resist
fantasy
and possibility.