Aftershave

She’s got a necklace of rottweiler teeth,
Nails of a featherless vulture.
And damn, does she want me.

She carries around a deck of cards, all aces,
Inside a house covered in faces.
Boy, does she want me.

Her bones are glass, her skin is dust,
She’s opened up for me, half-reluctantly.
But only because she wants me.

A sweet serenade, with ivory melodies,
A despaired cry of Arctic wood.
The voice of an angel (maybe Red Riding Hood).

Eloquent feet, sleek thighs,
A crimson neck and bronze chest.
She presents this for me.

An adventure in the sheets,
A safari of sensuality.
Her desire to fulfill has grown (for me).

Springs and moans,
New, unsightly things and those brittle bones,
Revealed after being kept away in the dark.

A foot in the ass, her nose against the door,
Tears relish in the broken moment,
As I kick her out. I prefer to be clean.