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.