ARRvol34 master reduced - Flipbook - Page 129
Hookup, mismatch
A thousand naked women dance for her
if not, in fact for you. You cannot ask
yourself that thing, you know, the sacred blur
prevents you. Wine – or whiskey – beer, in fact,
is all you think, and havoc’s all you feel.
Still kissing you, she sees and feels them twirl
the way she thinks she does. But then the eel,
who’s caked in vomit, crawls and snakes and swirls,
unhinging bile and twisting knots. You drank
too much to know. Her dancers spin and sing.
She moans, back arched. She’ll call you still, and thank
you after. Maybe you shouldn’t tell her that thing:
Her gyrating as much as your beer
turned your gut over and onto its ear.
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