Sex Beef Or a Punch in The Scrotum

 
He said;

‘Baby let’s fuck.’

And that was a fast curtain to a final bad act;

Wild ponies dragging his cock across naked flowers

Crushing the truth under check- cashing hips

and fried fiction.

‘What happened?’

‘Call the Press! Save that dress!’

And  those slipper-soft french nylons;

The skirted innocence of champagne bubbles

Drowns the silken pout of mistaken trouble .

And he wants to eat pussy all the time now

His mouth is full of soap opera bubbles

The  cold blooded sting of sobriety slaps his tongue

the morning after

And he scrawls the wall with jizz and paint

Mixing messages about  Basquiat and Bartok.

He sits  alone and sees gold painted devils

Seeping under the floors trying to reach his secret.

His face is webbed with thorny excuses and alibis;

Red clouds like omens hang across shrunken skies

Mister America grasps the toilet bowl

A gigantic pimple bleeding on his soul

He has never seen a poetic sweat shop

But if he did he’d burn it down.

.

Saira Viola
Illustration Nick Victor