A Poem to Fuck To
Walk up to lot lizards
to ask for lipstick
and the one who says
she’s from Fresno
just got back with her
old man, left him in a Coupe
and returned for the fire,
and the tall one keeps checking her purse,
like she knows that things are changing –
the endangered leopard print, those roach killers
that keep her working all the angles…
This may not seem like a poem to fuck to,
but it is: retreating into your pillows,
joyous arching back, those greedy deadpan fuck me eyes
burning a hole through the bloody ceiling
to some of the greatest music you have ever heard.
Horror Sleaze Trash 