(for rowland s. howard)
A small girl knifes her heart out of her chest,
blunt and inexperienced.
Flings the thing on to the checkered bistro floor
poses in the mind of the illustrator, bleeding out.
Eyes like a Hollywood Starlet, smile like the Devil Incarnate.
You’re bad for me, like Coca-Cola.
Three men play in a band and you stand;
one with the machine. Convulsing. Rough
monogamous sonic violence. I don’t speak this
language. Suddenly, I understand the difference
between playing and making love to the feedback,
rocking like a lover despondent.
Can’t articulate it, so articulate something else:
Nobody disrespects a suit quite like you.
Perched: clever bird on a wire,
cigarette between your witch-fingers,
dandy with a tendency to meander.
Letters written without need of reply.
I know you’re dead. Pick up the phone.
Desperate, I’ll take you corpselike,
consecrated, exonerated, covered in dirt.
Oil-slick decay out from your body & straight into mine,
babe. Let me suck the disease right where it hurts.