I smell your scent
  when i grip the steering wheel -
woody, strong, earthy
  the essence of fungus buried in loam
but still, in a good way.

Even if i wash my hands
    with chlorine,
you stick like eclipse
      on a glorious sun -
the spine of a murderer
    Oh, you have chiseled so **** well,
incorporated it into the spaces
              of your lumbar discs.

And i thought i saw you
    in a portrait of a gentleman
i almost choked laughing myself to death
  for no single bone of yours is ever gentle
nor a MAN.

We were close
      but before i reached clitorial ******,
you said her name inside my mouth.
  The grit of a shotgun pierced like million bullets of a machine gun
    and i convulsed with the eruption of pain. The smell of sandalwood
          on leathered steering wheel
      swapped with decayed collar bone of pretend.

And i and death never felt as close
      as my own eyelashes.