Ah...Yeah Ah...Yeah Ia…Ia…Ia Io...Io...Io Mind boggling nymphos succumbing to Apollo replicas. What? I thought I was some sort of fraud that, You could distinguish from pseudo volatile idolatry, And glorified malignant distancing. I snap fingers... click. Click. Who dice rolls prima donnas? Not I. Nay, nay, I came her for the band chicky. Lay off. I got no squabs with you. I crack my neck. Up, left, and then to my other right. Clackity, clackity, crack. "The drummer's my friend... What? Does my writing during a show bug you? Fuck you...I’m not your pussy hound tonight. Your type doesn't interest me. Get it? Got it? Good." [The inner voice of 'reason' from my mind chimes in] "What’s with this crazy vagina? And her soiled bull-horn sun carry? Ah, I know. Period. Blood flow. Pheromones, And the forgotten filaments ebony edged. Yes, yes, love thy neighbor. Covet! Covet! Hold tight your stolen smegma and goop, And when it comes time to scrape the hull... Dry dock her on your face." She’s so full of quaint precious tricks too. Like sucking her own nipples, And putting both feet behind her back. Whoopie! More nauseating undiscovered talent, on the loose in this loose town. "Get off the ground please honey... You’re fucking embarrassing (scaring) me. What? You want a tip? Here it is...die. Let us have more oxygen. Either that, or get me a drink, But you’re standing in my light. So...make your decision count, and quick." "But, don'tcha think I’m pretty?" She says. "Yeah, pretty fucking desperate. Can’t you tell I’m a serial killer? Posing as a writer in the hopes of Channeling Ted Bundy’s soul into me? So that later when I rip off your arms you'll know why." Silence She smiles..."Neat, you must be a famous writer, or something, huh? Who’s Ted Bundy?" We lock eyes...she's dead serious. Suddenly, I have an epiphany erection brewing. An Oedipus complex emerging. Down boy...down boy! She flips her hair for the fifteenth time. I see a condom peeking out of her brazier. It’s times like this that I wish I were, Truly inclined to kill, and fuck corpse. Fuck corpse. Love corpse. Make Ed Gein's shrine shine. Because, this beast is worth more head trophy-glass-eyed. "Would you like to come back to my place?" She mouths seductively in my ear over the music... "Would I ever...what was your name again?" I blurt. (Like that matters) Ah, yeah... Ah, yeah... Ia…Ia…Ia Io...Io...Io If I could send a message in a bottle? It would be, "Don’t look for me. For love... I feel safer lost... For love, turns on you sometimes, and can, and will, pulverise you into a finely ground powder of wind food. So I'll pass this time. Is there anyway I can love you without knowing you at all?" Signed, Jack the ripper's new & improved libido.