Push it out, nothing peaceful,
what’s meaningful anymore when you roam,
painstakingly snatch every last one
milk every last drop,
unintentionally crash every last dummy
and you say I’m sorry mommy
‘til the cows come home.

On a lonely night,
only not over the countertop like she wants it,
like debutantes swoon,
legs over the moon,
flour on her cheeks, moaning,
pushing aside crumpets and scones,
don’t laugh, every good girl envies a strumpet
her bones.

She’s on to me,
I told her a lobotomy could produce romance,
a little incision to remove anything
a little correction,
so that he will bend to her whim,
instead of she to my shoulder,
sheep to their cozy slaughter full of
midsummer night dreams.

I don’t want to hold her,
I told her,
you should count something else besides points,
but it seams,
the old girl doesn’t understand
what I mean.

Drag one from his sodomy,
pick away
slowly at his autonomy,
he doesn’t need a man, only you do,
who knows what you do when you want something
than rockstar posters and Harlequins,
equestrian pescatarian men with spectacles
and books on their chins,
pins and needles
from crossing their legs too tight and hail marys
for all their tiny little sins tonight.