Nice
by
Precious Jones

Nice poetry she types to me
via instant messenger.
Not too long ago she fucked my girl.
How does she know my poetry is nice?
Did K read her a few before she
went down on her in the living room,
did she read her one or two after she
fucked her from behind in the shower?
Did K read her a love poem while
pussy popping her, legs spread on the
coffee table? Fucking to my nice poetry?

I want to say to her: the entire city of
new york has probably had a piece of
your cunt, I bet you've caught an STD
or two. I hope K catches it, I hope
you give her something that makes you both
itch and burn and scab up like a super
soft-n-free perm applied to ultra fine hair
left in for twenty minutes too long.
I hope it turns your insides to purple mush
that evolves into pink maggots
that feast off your sinful flesh.
I hope you both cough up molded lungs
that get stuck in your mouths half way out
attracting flies, roaches, mosquitoes,
ticks and leeches that creep in your
eyes and ears and other cracks and crevices,
wrecking havoc til you can't feel leg,
facial or ass muscles, let them devour your
clits, let them sink teeth into digits
til they become stubs.

I want to say: do not
under estimate my malice and cunning
that can have your face on the
back of a milk carton in a matter of a day.
It is this same cunning that knows to
let them remain the unenlightened
asses they are, cause if and when I do
retaliate, I want to watch the life slowly
ooze out of their bodies,
eyes and mouths wide as they realize
before taking their last undeserved breaths
that what looks nice from afar can surely be
deceiving.

Copyright © 2003. Used with author permission.

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