The specter of my death
leches around in parking lots,
skirts hiked all up to hell,
flashing ass at motorists.
She twists cigarettes
like she's manipulating
a puppet, her grin a bat
to shriek from her jawline--
cancer a canary to perch at her lip.
Her hard knuckles, yellow as mortar,
clutch at something ghetto-wrapped and potent.
She is engorged
with the glory
of herself--rabid as a hangover,
crushing glass under her shoes
like a Jew at a wedding.
She filters through to me
from the wilted recesses of mirrors--
her dank eyelashes, those spider-spines,
are swarming with my bones, her bluejeans crumpling
with visions of my hips . . .
That unprincess bitch,
that kitchen-dweller hovel of a woman,
my known and lithe Godiva.
I will turn scurvy like the rest of you . . .
leukemiac . . .emphysema'd . . .
something ungraceful will take me
and I will sink from the buoyance of days.
I, however, will reek sweet of that departure,
will gnaw death like a shish-kebab,
will plunge into it
like a sprung virgin--
threshing the sheets with the awkward thunder
of that tumble . . .
with the brilliant cunt of my death,
who doesn't give a rowdy fuck.
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