nice ash
she's cold and screams
with burnt eye sockets and a Brach's™ caramel

on the end of her tongue.


licked and smoothe, a
small black number eats

the edges of shoulders, the backs
of her calves.

ain't it a pretty bitch?


a life of lost-loves and
too much mouthing.

got to get away, run
to the edges of this too-close horizon.
off the edges, rather,

and she swims.

you feel her heels when they grind
gravel to sand and sand to clay,

stuck in her sashaying.


she feeds you something flippant
something not quite tasty.

and you like it, you want more
of the way it bites you.

she's a white-striped angel with
a grubby halo and bloody hands.

wielding headphones and a pen
like satan brandishes his pitchfork.
and your mouth is so busy hanging open


that you won't tingle at the way
you're left stung. she's a biter,

she's a fork-tongued fangful

and the crimsonlips licked leave you
dry and hard.


you want to leave her
sipped and sapped,
the jagged edges of her sheets

rendering meagre the contours of Europe.