Fucked Forever – Brian Henglein

A cold rain caresses the bare flesh as the lamp burns a female figure into the blackness. The
clicks off a boot heel sound out betwixt the many thousands of rain drops
…his reflection as he taps past the puddles.

A vixen amidst the vortex.
The man spins her like a top,
Swooning as he swoops and so on forever till the world stops.

The room, an auburn smoke, a sweating euphoria splayed out before the dresser mirror.
Black silk and black lips; the man a monolith has arisen,
a gold tooth flickers a pinup girl on his rippling shoulder.

A hand holds her wholly and truly
like an old iron vice.

She will stay, it is as he says it is as he does.
The belt’s two tongues diverge in carnal release.

She has picked the lock, but the Rottweilers roam, fucking, fighting and spitting out rust.

Convergence of forces foreign to one another forever and always, for man
knows not of the moon and woman
knows not of the sun
and earth sat between…

Tides and rip curls of satin sheets sweep across the bed,
the stage to the theater of every pleasure and all pain.
Synchronised, bound and tethered. Man with his might makes war on woman
with a loving organ, a pink gun, the woman concedes, she falters. Her face
buried into a sweat stained pillow peppered with cigarette burns and mists of blood.
He fucks her. She is fucked forever.
He reaches toward his ankle without interruption,
grabs his 38. and slaughters the bitch.

The lamps alight the land of dead lovers
And how beautiful she’ll look on ice, how strapping he’ll look
in the courtroom, her corpse as pixels on the courtroom monitor.

Her powdered face pressed between the wrought iron fence,
her meticulous fingertips grasp the bars.
She is cooing for her killer,
begging St. Peter to let her back downstairs.

And She’d rather a bed of nails than a tuft of clouds,
but God’s never in his office.

Man, down there, awaits his death
with a smirk of madness,
smoking and combing the sidewalks for his last step.

Woman, she waits.
She’ll never die, she will wait,
for a death more grisly than any interstate collision or cartel castration.

The man, hot on the heels of a big death, sends out his last great raucous.
A tower has fallen, he looks up as if it were the rapture,
it comes down upon him.

Listen to the shattering glass,
listen as the everything splinters.
The hand of god pushes through…
She awoke to the sound of shoes clopping, ascending, impending, her man making his
way in 4 stair lunges.
—Pistol pete, so nice to finally meet you.
—Ditto kid, come on in.

The darkness swirls beneath the floorboards of the firmament,
upon which they walk as insurgents.
His boots clopping, sounding down the hooven dawns of his last mind,
and her heels clicking, ticking and tocking stamping into this realm of a more lovelier time.