The hose springs free
of that senescent apparatus
spews errant effluent and frothing sludge
past the chartreuse circles of the deck.
Your lips sliced raw by
sunburn, Sleemans, and swear
say dearest when I go to hell
because we both know
that’s my destination,
that bastard Satan’s gonna line up six
of these motherfuckers
and say Stanley
when they’re all singing
sweetly
you can scram.