ditzy porterhouse, jezebel
scurrying about in your
southern-charmed parlour,
awaiting some dupe to
bite your head,
to gargle your blood
in his asthmatic esophagus
before we all come
to our senses.
your whore doesn't do IT
for me, the compulsive
IT that drew us together,
a guilty saturate, the
one that keeps your woman
up at night when I
need a dry mattress
so my tears won't
pass through,
passing through on their
way to North Carolina,
just passing through.
