get lost, she said
why don’t you run into yourself on a dead end street and take hands–
run echoes across town painting love murals on asphalt in blood,
make rock angels california style scott weiland love children!
& tugging a cigarette from her model lips
she exhaled symmetry between her legs:
A-side bad, Z-side worse,
the goth rockers whose sex is smeared on the walls of New York alleys
left their sensual legacy for you to discover–
so why haven’t you cut your fingers on its gilt edges?
what–dinky diddle do, the hell, bum de bop— are you waiting for?
and relaying said wisdom she knelt prettier than any supplicant–
she gave me head and sent me on my way to the future without payment, and I came on a fast ride to nowhere,
free as her pierced cunttt—