Lothario don’t care

baked cold in white fluorescence, he wipes black bean
sauce from his mouth like he just killed a man
and he laughs his trout laugh he says: what I WANT, man
and you can put this on my dating profile, bitches, what I’m
telling you here is what I want; I want a woman who will
stretch out in a deckchair on OVERCAST days
I want a woman who deliberately pisses off her catholic mother
by not crossing herself at family funerals but who
stands there like a civilian all protestant-vague and being a
BITCH about it for her mother’s sick old sake
I want a woman who spills change out of her pocket
down into the seams of the couch where it sits
like it’s been dropped forever into a dryer or a coke machine
every day she’s stained in $17 chemist perfume the colour of
alcohol and mandarins dissolved together in a sad song of death
she’ll leave the vipers in her handbag and
she’s most alive after carnage
in grey clean dawns, we in the clouds a’rumble
her head cleared utterly with ten strikes of climax
and one still in the chamber now, but she says
hold on, hold on, with her voice reborn weary and languishing
hot as a phoenix, she says hold on as she arcs out from the
violated sheet and a cigarette goes whoof! and she’s now
the colour of lavender and talking to me
from the absolute clearest depths of this memory
THAT’S it, bitches! That’s it, put that down, he says

& then there’s a hiatus of cocked .45 calibre laughter
then I laugh across the surface of my fangs
and we all laugh
we all laugh