I thought you had a deep eye,
figured you for a decent guy,
but who knew it took but five days,
for you to shed your scaly coat,
and reveal a body made of lies.

I thought you had a keen mind,
figured you for a smart guy,
but who knew it took but five days,
for you to run out of hay,
and turn back into a rednecked ass.

I thought you had a kind heart,
figured you for an honest guy,
but who knew it took but five days,
for you to screw up your pacemaker,
and choke it with diseased blood.

I thought you had a sufficient dick,
figured you for a good lover,
but it’s too bad that at five days,
you went limp, flaccid, and faltered,
and let that little organ take over.

It’s 35 degrees out,
but I’m wearing my hair loose,
because it feels so good,
to have it stroke my back,
though the smooth tresses tickle,
they sway so light.

Brown-black waves,
nourished by the warmth within,
carried by the breeze without,
flirt with a girlish ease,
though the damp air stifles,
they hiss a good fight.

Back and forth,
the strands swing and fickle,
play with the slight wind,
and make love to the skin,
though the caresses tingle,
they tarry on for Aphrodite.

You come at me with your faded grin,
with your black, dirtied snowed curls,
and you ask me to make a series of ticks,
of pragmatic answers, of rights and wrongs,
of 1s, 2s, 3s, 4s, and 5s,
to determine how my eyes judge you,
how my brains see you,
how my entrails feel about you.

You come at me with your bound-up neck,
with your fuzzy grey Zegna garnishes,
and you ask me to believe that love is a package of ticks,
of SWOT analyses, of same-same glittery bribes,
of Fris, Sat’days, and Sundays,
and not of princesses and peas,
not of princes and frogs,
not of caresses and tease.

I come at you with my faded acquiescence,
with my dry-iced deferred pistachio stare,
and I grouse a thousand hidden wedded pricks,
of TV dinners, of bedside movie theatres,
of sleep before the clock strikes 12,
of ringed side-by-side mannequins,
prepping for war so quiet so stealth,
in the sun-up ruins.

I come at you with a practised cheer,
with my camouflaged, rouged, creamed masquerade,
and I whimper up your 360-degree review,
with an itemised receipt of my surrender,
to the vacuuming of my reveries,
to the crystallisation of my mirages,
to the scrubbing white of my dusk,
to the hollowing of my bedraggled soul.