The hip shift, cock of the walk, like the tick of a clock,
Gear of the pelvis as the moment passes, man. Dig the manner
Of the move, all high-stepping with her ass twitched up,
Black skirt nasty, shredded stockings, shredded smile,
She's that. Tits embraced -- each to their separate cup --
Tops fondled by the shag of her dark swag, hair the color
Of a raven, you know? I'm on her like heartbeats, like the banner
Of a distant nation, like the old dead Bard's rhyming style.
She digs the sound of my lock.

We split to the crazy, me in hazy wine and bitter coffee,
She with cider and the needle. We share a smoke outside her pad;
Drift inside. She shows me her cigarette scars. I recite bars
I've been 86'd from. We groove to the dulcent, you know, man, jazz.
She cops a thing in a whisper. "Moves me." She digs violence like Mars.
Wrap her wrists in my cheap old belt, tear the nylon skin off her thighs;
She bites her lips, sighs, calls me "Bastard" in a softening voice, border mad.
Says, I'm all she wants, all she loves or needs. I tell her I'm all she has.
When we fuck, man, she tastes like candy, sweet and slick, dissolving toffee.