A Suit of Lights

If you find me alive
after hours of jingling excavation
as the tiny mirrors
shaved from a thousand limbs
of windscreen glass
shiver off me, sprinkle to the ground,
don't pump me with pints
of well-wishing blood.
Someone else - the type
not to play ping pong
with a phoenix egg -
needs it more, and besides,
I'm happy. The fairy godmother
of fuck-fantasies
turned my cum-stained jeans
into a sparkling scarlet wrap
and I'm dancing, yeah.
Prop me up
behind the wheel. Insert
yourself like my puppeteer
and drive me. Fly me.