She wore purple glasses

like a bookish whore.

The man looked at her,

like an alcoholic

afraid to have his first drink.

She laughed at him.

He was a bore.

She thought, she understood him,

but he knew

that wasn’t true.

A classical conservative man

meets a woman

who

loves to walk on the beach

nude.

“I’ve just got to tell you…” she said. “Ed Kemper, is my most favorite serial killer.”

“Mine too. We have stuff in common!”

He checked her out online, and she was wearing the joker face, while drinking a beer.

“We love the things that might kill us,” he was fond of saying.

He noticed, she wasn’t wearing any underwear. She wanted his attention.

He was the piano playing, idea creating, Mr. Rogers.

She was the woman who talked about abuse, recovery, and trauma, stored in her hips.

“You have to fuck a lot of guys, to push out the bad thoughts,” she said. “It’s like a catharsis, or an aborted baby. You don’t want to keep what’s ugly.”

There was something exhilarating in her. She had purple hair.

He was a male fly

drowning in a pitcher plant

of female goo.

What is a man to do, when there are no safe crazy women?

She was audited by the IRS several times,

and now she hides her money in 5 different safes,

that belong to 5 different female friends.

She waits tables, but screams at her customers for eating too slowly.

She brings home a new man each month, and has her way with him.

“My husband tried to dominate me,” she said. “That’s why I divorced him.”

Later, the writer told his friends he thought she was a typical woman from Seattle.

“But she’s from Eastern Washington,” they said.

The skinny male black widow spider fucks the female, even though he knows he’s going to be eaten.

The writer looked at her,

as if she was his muse.

Giving away his mind, would be like giving away his behind

to a prisoner who hadn’t been loved in 20 years.

Oh, the horror

they could share together.

They could bleed together.

They could dance through life, until death,

and murder all the people who got in their way.

The writer might say,

“She stole my talent

my virginity

my sanity

my sense of reality

my bank account

my friends

my life

while everybody

believed her

when she said,”

“He stole from me. I’m the victim. My husband was a narcissist. That’s why I put a contract on him. It was him or me. Someone had to die. I watched a lot of serial killer documentaries, to know how to do it.”

“You did the sensible thing,” our friends would say.

“Now, can you hook me up with a new man?”

“Yeah. What do you want? Conservative or Liberal, Innocent or Fishy?”

“Just extra crispy; I want this guy to taste good. I’ll eat him with some ketchup and tartar sauce.”