She was the picture of the perfect girl,
Trite down to the wiggle in her curl,
But so taken with domesticity
That she sought to make a husband out of me.
With fleeting glance I would absorb her face
From the secret corners of my secret place
And project her silken features through the years
And resee them ridged with shadows and with tears.
I doubt she ever came to realize
The bitter game I played within my eyes,
Seeing her at first as just a crone,
The lumpy flesh clinging to the bone,
And then distorting all her form and face,
Remolding now her sex and seed and race
‘Til all that stood within my view
Was a rubber mask stretched tight around a screw.

The day I married, her father led her down the aisle.
He wore a white flower, but it was yellow around the edges.
By evening it stank as flesh in a grave, reminding me of my bride’s perfume.

We drove into the Western hills
To partake of those wedded thrills
(oh she was coy, my bride of just a day,
Dangling out her sex in bold array,
As if a snare that used two breasts as bait
with which to find an anxious sleeping mate).
We took a cabin with a mountain view,
Which is the proper thing for all to do,
And when I slowly took apart her dress
And ran my hands across her sweating mess
She closed her eyes and thought –ah, this is life,
To be undressed and be somebody’s wife.

At the wedding her mother spread on purplish face powder.
She looked like a whore, and knowing her I wouldn’t doubt it. I respected the old bitch, though. After all, at least she was honest about it….

We pranced in merry heat up to the bed
And slowly now I stroked her humid head,
Her bony hands with wild abandon flew
Across a land that I alone once knew.
Like a brush dipped deep into the black
Her palm pressed ever firmly on my back
She arched her feeble frame and groaned in hope –
Girls wed syringes filled with wondrous dope.
And just as she began to purr in pain
I put a 38 caliber bullet through her soggy brain.

The very day we were married, her sister’s hand slipped under the table and stroked my knee.
Christ! Some people have no sense of timing.