HOOKED.

Mrs Smith’s man was no fisherman by hobby,
more a horse of nature
in the blood that lead to his cock,
soft and grey on the slab.

His mouth.
That rubber lipped mouth.
He never brushed those Big Ed teeth.
At least she got paid for that honour.

This stallion sat in his boat
and was hooked by mutual bait.
It came in the form of a pariah piranha,
Hall and Oates knew what they were singing about.

He died on the flesh
of the already dead.

Her mouth.
That blood red mouth.
She sucked the life out of him
and spat the bones into the sea.

Shergar, the enigma of his kind,
the kind who disappears without trace,
leaving an empty taste
like that of a question mark on the tongue.

Those mouths.
Those dirty, lustful mouths.
Mr Smiths track runs to the whores
whose entry signs lead out to Hades Sea.
This horse’s hobby was whores.
He'll fuck forever, never more.