Hell hath no furies like a woman
charring around
up let alone down,
stream bellowing from her pitch pipe.
Damn girl!
Tonight I'm on auto-pilot &
flying solo through every strip club in the northwest.

I'm dying here
perplexing
drowning in lucid episodes.

I'll leave your body broke
churched among the seats of my egotistical menace,
I focus on the wanderlust of nun's love buns.
Hence, do not speak this
but -
I long to carouse the wine from her lips
leaving her footprints tattooed on my collarbone;
until the day a moth pulls a pound from my wallet of consanguinity,
fouled red in her
name.

Laced poison - sewn and stitched across
my palms of clover,
red-dawn sun beneath an ink sky,
tempest like ambrosia
resting on the days eleventh quarters.
Led-filled ambition
convoluting the world around,
pulling my head from the sand
she snarls;
boxing glove in hand
black eyed & posture angelic.

I'm fierce, she said
- a heavyweight
in the right light & right mind.
I will yank out your teeth just to earn a nickel and see a pretty lady ready for love.

The moral of this story is
...it was not her!
- you know her,
the marriage type
ring, sharp suit, sandwiches in a briefcase & people carrier,
with-out room for anthing me.

Well I'm a man
& I drank the tap's dry,
still earning enough for a pretty lady.

who

Stabbed me dead in a hotel room.
My mistress in hand and wearing a
smile.