Slut, she imagines herself
In riches. An Indochine seductress
Oiled yellow skin on which men
Will slip. Spit, fingers greedily seeking
A thing they cannot name. Teats hang
Flat, as pastry bags, emptied of their
Sweetness. Nursemaid to the wounded,
Seeking tales of woe - of wife. Green goddess
Of war, her cunt dripping with envy.
She'll Even the score.
He tells her of some other
How he's losing her to death. Ever The
Lover, she seduces with her gifts of piss-
Water tulips, cheap hallmark condolence,
He'll accept with slippery kiss. Watch
How he struggles in her oil black eyes
Seeing himself there, a king he once
Despised. He falls to her fecund dark
Hair, the only solace her can bear.
She will take it as it comes; any pain,
Any fury. Better to be a thing used,
Than left on the shelf. In private she
Mocks the wife's high-holy purity
Episcopal bitch. Imagines her sickly stiff
Limbs unable to wrap about him
Yet this Gauguin-esque cunt, blinded
by her snakes. Knows nothing
Of this wife. Assumptions unreliable.
She is a force unwise to question.
She who shatters those things outlived
Their use. Those thick and foreign
Jars from once-vacationed lands.
How silently rage awakens,
Her white body moving quiet
From the sickbed, and calmly she hurls
her tight and coiled rage against blank,
emotionless walls. Knowing this
Thing, will splinter and break. See now
The dead rise; she is alive after all.