So much repetition. You think I’m crass
what I do to your ass, each time I come
over. “That’s frowned on?” If I can’t trespass
why show up? You’ve been wearing my cum,
like cheap mascara, all day. — Now I frown:
“Not foul enough?” If your child could see you
right now, would she die of shame? Your nightgown
has. Each time puddles form and that funk-zoo
fuck-beast spice fills the room. How to explain
away this bruise? Those nail marks? That hickey?
Here I am, once more, knocking on your door,
“to fuck your shit up.” To spoil you with pain,
that drug of unnatural potency,
always in bad taste. Evermore hardcore.