Loitering in the Wal-Mart
parking lot, she picks at
a scab weeping under her
skirt, sidles up to an olive

Volvo sedan, and proposes a five
ninety five blow job. With a spit
slickened index, she fingers
her crotch, rapidly jerks

her left hand, fingertips forming
a zero, slack wrist thwacking
while rotating an orange tongue
grotesquely over her lips, bugging

her grey eyeballs between flickering
lids, and compass humping those
rotary hips. Seemly and supple,
her gut undulates with curt and

convivial ripples. Hey baby photo phone
pressed to her ear, she activates
all her damn arms like some
fucking insect, six, and

in one hand a hatchet, another
which rips at her bodice dumping
ghastly lewd jewels, an infinite
glandular jouisance, a

blood running bone neck
lace of skulls as she whacks
at the posterior atlanto
axial ligament of one

dribbling john cutlet strung
out in his ride, yanks off
his head, sucks off the mechanic
cerebrum, and shuffles a rumba,

pumping iron thighs and smacking
the pavement in a pink blur of fem
flip flops while calling her
self a come honey bitch collie.