Your high-pitched lips performed
across the folds of my polka-dot dress,
palms facing the backwards, pornographic belly
of that tuned out guitar you pounded and bruised.
A harmony of secrets slime out
amongst angsty lyrics
only an adulterer could produce.
The arduous task of penciling in time
for you to break my home
with whole notes of paradigm lust
is becoming repetitive and melodious
like a broken ballerina music box.
Yet I am held captive in the abstraction
of your breathy cadence, fluid and pretentious
as it may be. You are the unfortunate sharp
in Every
Good Boy Does Fine.