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Nights with Melody

Melody's foot in my fevered lap,
Wiggling pornographic toes.
Music, a jovial moon. Southern Comfort on the shelf.
A backward blues tonight: Don't wanna go home again,
Just lie here in all this sweet and wet.

Found her like your eye finds a grain of sand;
Mad pain. But oh she laughs, and hair as red as mortal sin.
She mutters of saloon and smoke.
Husband somewhere, oh yes. Tattoos and belly,
Gobbets of sandwich wet in his mouth.

Someday I'll wake to mens' voices, prelude to bloody business. I know it now.
Uproar and puke, bright explosion in my head, Melody calling him a fucker.
But tonight I kiss her ecstatic foot, and who cares anyway?
The glass rolls beneath the bed. Damn.
So, drink Comfort from the bottle. Melody!

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