hear the tramp of her step,
like empty, hollow skulls upon an infected tree
that sound, like jumpin’ jazz riddims
banged out in groups of three.
...a cold night, when the roof loomed low and the walls were like
Imperial Star Ship trash compactors,
the six-legged giraffe was in a cold corner
her two eight-ball eyes locked on me.
The pit of my stomach: hollow,
the weight of my head: 0 lbs, 0 oz,
and a marvelous, masochistic tingle in the head of my penis.