crouching in a corner,
like a pale
patient spider,
he waits
for her; he knows the
type: trusting, friendly,
open.
he’s a well-oiled machine,
a perfect stud;
his smile like a courtesy-car
or a dead man in a wood.

one walks in with a
meat-hook through her neck. he
grins and offers her a seat, his
hands dripping with glue.
soon his snake-mouth has her laughing.
he hates her animated pose:
he likes them marble cold,
but the Ambien will soon fix that.

back at his flat, she lies like
a dead cormorant
on his bed, her clothes
scattered on the floor
like discarded lottery tickets.
he stands over her, erect
and
proud, like some stone-age savage;
he sees her as he does all women:
as cunt.

she is kissed awake
by the morning
sun;
looks down,
then looks again:
she’s dragging her father
on her ball and chain.