BOTCHED MISSION

Or, booty call gone bad.
It’s not funny. Nor murky.

Icy thorns of fury
Recede slower than scars.

The sustenance of pain wore off.
Frayed, aching, sopping

With venom, rage engorged,
Vein of mayhem opened.

Angel dust of adrenalin
Winging dainty arms,

Amplifying might. Charm
Offensive, to be admired only at night

Beloved as a mule,
His shame her cargo.

Serial monogamy, serial frustration.
No getting off this ride.

Flexing reserves of righteous
Muscle, she kicked ass and dragged.

Damn him, fuck spadework,
Shanghai the shower as tomb,

Victuals, body rotting,
Speculation rising

Till they found the red stench,
Cordial, self-winding businessman

In fetal position, lenses
In the washer, voyeuristic goo.

Water did not silence the apparatus
Nor launder its images

Truth as obscured
As that Judgement Day in June,

God in the guise of ex-girlfriend,
Jesus lost in five years of lynch mob.