and the mudder is conned

by Steven J. Serafiani

there are women, yes

attracted to;
as a high cheekbone demure
playfully teases your brain. there are
women out for dignity lust- with a
toothbrush coupled tumbler dip
within days. don’t be
tempted. these ones
come across as pleasant to
waiters or charismosa with
friends. dark humor
sprinkle sarcastic love
of my fucking life. but alas,
the usual, as smock gets dirty
prepping canvas or
fish or a combination of

during wintry mix of pale
skin and lack of sex, you
begged for pale hand on tan slender
neck just below a fringe
drop earring- sex now
a constant. she’s death. she’s

the paratrooper of death. drop in
off Moroccan winds into fresh
spring. romance!
oh and she

fuck, she reads obscure shit. negotiates
with the record store clerk,
entranced by her beauty, we leave with
half price player. doesn’t
bat an eye when I suggest an
antique store walkabout. when
she sleeps; when she sleeps,
the bulbless room gets a
hue. when

she imitates; when she
imitates, the thought of
racetrack dampens the
mudder but you are
mudder aren’t you?