Rock me, baby, cradle me in a rhythm that is agonizingly
deep and excruciatingly slow, draped in the clinical,
cold anesthesia of a chilled martini. Let the gin numb
the nerve endings and the olive taste like a final kind word,
drifting until the redline of my pulse finally flatlines a sudden,
sharp silence that blooms into an endless void.
Turn the heat down until the room plunges twenty degrees
below the freezing point, sinking into a frost where the very
blood in my veins thickens and turns to a crimson slush.
Carry my heavy, broken ass toward the sterile fluorescent lights
of the mortuary, though I’ll take a detour, skipping with a manic,
jagged energy toward the loo, only to find the void too wide and
my bladder too full, ending in the pathetic act of pissing right there
on the cold tile floor…So rock me, baby, deep and slow, until there
is nothing left but the echo.
