Latest Demon.

 

Your breasts are the most boring things about you,

apart from your cunt,

but words to describe them

never miss a sultry step in our tango.

 

Dance, baby. Dance.

 

Decorative poles won’t hold the roof for long,

less-than-gentlemen callers will leave as soon as their wallets are emptied,

and sooner or later I’ll cough out an involuntary yawn

that will shatter your mirrored-ceiling delusions of captivation.

 

You are merely the latest demonstration,

a fleshy monument to The Moment,

an orgasm for eyes that dull after ejaculating

tears that reflect

your unmerited accounts

throughout history.