Pussy Killer

the crown washes up, and a circle of old men brood by it.

It is rare to see a tangent piece of
her that once carried luster
the burned hair, matted in red
like it had been thick licked by a mother cat…

The old men might be optimists
to think her last breaths were buoyed
by the loving licks of a lioness.

Their dim eyes search for the light of life
in her skin shards and black pilot eyes.

Don’t tell girls not to look at the dead things, tell them
why a woman is a head piece,
tell them so that when their sisters come
to shore, they recognize

There is something of a nightmare
on the face of a man who fucks with nothing on his mind.

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