as his eyes bored through her,
black as the two holes burnt in a blanket
from dropping ash, she thought she'd
let the matter go,
at the ragged end of the night
they sat, face to face, him
rubber-banding the notes made
flat to stack, pleatings of paper
upon paper, thick enough to
choke that horse,
and, sunny Jim, she thinks, don't
be trying to hide that tail from me--
I see it, sure enough, snaking
down the leg of your poxy trousers,
the hooves, too, you try to hide
betwixt my sheets, scratching the
varnish off the bedposts, leaving a
goatish pong to my bedclothes,
and later, too, as you
trowel thick-cut marmalade
upon toast, to go with your
breakfast-cup of brimstone,
noxious, redolent of all
your lies, the curling lips
pigsflesh fit for
butchering, exhaling, in your
stale and stinking breath,
the banality of evil
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