facelift melodies ring true
with every change of face that ignores me
not publicly, mind you, but with a vicious secrecy
that poses questions when even everyone has left

the last kiss is the natural end and the nonpunishable theft
leaving the moist brain out in a dust storm
of tall glasses, short skirts, and what is almost porn
where the sun-dried rotten lies descend to watch the sunrise

bad language and bad tidings, rereading bathroom stall writings
for the shakespearean drama of the repeating shallow romance
only if the sluts amongst us would give loyalty a chance
what a piss-stream of stale mornings would fill the toilet bowl of our head