Fuck me lips
and a Styrofoam face
made for gasoline.
She stutters and spits
like an oilless engine,
groaning and grinding
cunt-like in the neon basement.
From the mouth of God
spews a lava-filled litany
of arcane curses
and forlorn yearning.
Her bruised, steampunk-blue neck
pinned to the soaked mattress
with an afterworld glow
that spreads it glistening tentacles
throughout the concrete room
like gossamer octopi.
The room is pregnant and
screaming pheromones
with piss dribbles of fear.
She is most alive
seconds before her death,
when the swirl of dirty bathwater
draws the last shaved hairs
to the sewer.
—–
She smiles at me from
across the restaurant linens and
asks if we can go back to her place.
First dates are so stressful.
The Bailey Daily 
I don’t know what “lasagne gone back” is, but maybe it’s remotely similar to what I meant to write–“lasagne gone bad”????
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This poem leaves me speechless–something that has never happened to me; at least I don’t think so! The images, horrifying and well-crafted, do make me think of that platter of–gag–whatever that is! Shawn, please don’t tell me unless it’s simple like lasagne gone back. A heavy in horror poem, with such a light ironic ending! Just expand this into a book now called “First Date.” Gag and admiration, side by side! Your friend, Bon Bon!
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