Monday, August 29, 2016
Encore
-She's in Recovery. Perpetually.
-Booze? Drugs?
-Revisited them twice. But this is worse.
The worst one.
-Sex?
-Ah but you defile it! LOVE!
-That bad?
-The one in heavy leather volumes.
-Her bosom heaving? The crazy decayed
broad screaming in the attic? Some nut lecher
posing whitely on the noir heath?
-Never stops. And more atrocious yet, the
slimmer volumes of romantic poetry.
-There’s the killer!
-So she tries the Geographic Cure. Europe, Asia.
Biking, running, hiking! But the GPS sends her
to dead-end burgs where she thinks the village idiot is Lochinvar.
-Far from the mapping crowd!
Labels: addiction, Lochinvar, love, madding crowd, novel, romantic poetry, romantic prose, sex
