Wild Poison Porcelain

who's man, woman?

Drenched in sweat, sin dripping down her brow,
she thrusts once more before a moan of guilty pleasure
escapes from his open mouth. A shudder. A sigh. He falls.
Goddamit . She feels his magic/disco stick shrivel away from
her, returning to its original state of scaly skin and slithering.
Although at the moment she is not tempted, having already
tasted the fruit and swallowed the salty seeds of know-
-ledge. Still, ignoring the frantic voice screaming at her
ugly naked body because she knows, just as she's
known all afternoon; the tidbit of information
intimately devouring the back of her mind
so that she'll never forget. She didn't
shave this week, however now she
wishes she had. Bristly hairs futilely
trying to stand against a forest of
shame & secrecy do nothing for
her. She would much rather get
off on the attempt of yellow lust
to convince the nervous heart that
this is what you wanted . The head then
gladly succumbs to a haze of wet mouths
& pierced tongues. She never says no. His
breath is supposed to feel warm on her neck
but she is already so smoking hot (just burning
alive ) that it feels kind of nice and cool, a blanket of
comfort for every Jane. Compassion beats one at a time
as the supporting orchestra for a duet of one blissfully ig-
-norant fool and mother-mummified sex machine. Oil 'er up.
Push the flesh colored buttons and crank the lever to pillage
the garden; rob the town dry down to the last unhatched egg.
And she'll watch you, eyes on the bedroom, as she rises from
the sea foam. She sees him fumble for his wallet, the spell
already taking seat at the buffet of dignity and he hands
her black hole bills that drip with the blood of no one's
hands but that part is only in her head. There is no
money, no loss of majesty, no lingering stench of
rotten radiance within a box. There is only he &
she. A bed, a blanket. A band of gold turning
her green from the inside (inside). She is
the saint, the ungodly harlot. The
glorified one dressed in fishnet
and white.