She wakes with guts aspazz,
her abdomen a cacophonous cavity
of envenomed wrenchings,
dreaming of worms and vermin.
Her head a hapless knotted net
of last night's details, nastily nettled.
Nothing which is foul escapes the
webbed pentamers of her savaged senses;
an overflowing ashtray; a dirty pane;
a garbage truck's hydraulic heavings;
a glass pipe; three dead lighters;
a drained Jim Beam bottle on it's side.
A thick sex-musk is in
the air and on the sheets.
Horking up a gray-green goober
from deep within her smoke-scorched throat
she spits into a weary wastebacket
next to which a torn and leaking
condom mockingly lays.
* copywrite Willie Smith
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