Lara

Your tits are rubbish, your trough of wealth
makes me want to drag you
by the ponytail
through acervated cave guano.

Your threatening/sexy strut
implies self-sodomy with one
of your pistols, which you wear
on your hips like zirconia
stud earrings, and your accent is meh.

But your deaths, Lara, are what make you hot.
What other girl can swallow dive,
legs a barbed tailfeather, onto a carpet
of unforgiving rock?

What girl can crumple
with all the clatter of a lifesize model skeleton,
its wire snipped?

What girl can take a javelin
right up the vagina, out through the left eye,
then sigh and tumble sideways like you do?

Does anyone ignite so easily?
Would anyone else, richly aflame,
wander sure-footed, sans primal howl,
before expiring in the sponge of moss?

I don't think so.

And what kind of landed lady
writhes and bucks with such orgasmic energy
when she drowns in a deep sea cavern?

Or swaps elocution
for electrocution
in the kitchen of a capsizing icebreaker?

Or remains unbloody, intact,
death-gripping her pistolbrace,
after getting her spine massaged
by a tumbling boulder?

What girl could meet all these ends
and still come back for another run
at a ledge they can never reach?

What other girl, Lara,
would die for me,
not for my love, or to save my neck,
but just to stir, to make me spit
and cuss your wretched luck?