I want to make this as sick as can be-
Hack the marrow, hack it, baby—
We can dig in. Osso bucco,
so tender it slides off the bone in.
Less an orifice. Art form or woman?
72 virgins, no holes but the one that serves
best. They eat only honey, shit honey,
the lovelies, their men end
up with graham-cracker fingers.
Fat virgins, neck-skin puckering.
Pudenda tremendous. That old Tom’s jeans
rising. They pork on their spit, smoky
blonde-haired hicks, haunches strung up
on their own plus-size assets. Ringlets gleaming,
quivering in heaps. They want nothing
but a white-scalloped plate to arrange it.
The socketed marrow to binge on.
My floozies. Oh, greatness. Lashings
of lipstick. Some vogue like piranha.
Some make every list. They pork prophets,
break egg yolks on pasta. She took up with
a prep chef. My girls look like madams, each one.
