The Death of Jocelyn Jones
by Tom Murphy


Documents spell out the demise of Jocy Jones, sexting
men, told a story—lead them to the palace of wisdom
with a wink. “Tell Jesus, I said, ‘Hello.’”
Dispelling the libel thumpers at the door.

Selling nugs and having to bum green, Jocelyn feral.
Repine, stripped shirt and unzipped skirt.
Russet vulva, bursting to be tied, choke to soak.

It was never going to end well, for Jocy, supine, waits
naked next to appalling snore creates an inability to chillax.
Ripped a bowl, adding haze to the dead appliance garage.
Oh! let my keel burst, she wrote onto a page of secrets.

Forlorn ablution shaved cooch and bespeckle ink.
Prurient Jocy pinches her nips to gush ready cleft.
Wanton titter, come hither repose eyes as drape thighs unfold.

Poison on wheels, wrestling through backyards,
towering fences, kicking the dogs, curvaceous,
taking it on the chin. Matching pistols with hubby’s,
“I see a boy.” She adjusts her skirt, “Glad you checked.”

Wiggles Exiles, Jocy a brainiac flirt.
Hankers, educe, negotiates and procures.
“Darling, I’ll never leave you.”

O! How can LOVE exulting Reason quell!
Wine glasses broken and a door smashed.
That son of a bitch wanting answers to her infidelities
though he couldn’t bother to scramble eggs for their kid.

Cuckolded, he grasped the pearl handle, awaits her form.
In the early naked light, bullets sucker punch Jocelyn Jones.
Jocy spilt upon the wooden floor mixes guts with life blood.







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