Beef

Sometimes she would sleep
With her head on my chest
Saying she liked to hear
My heart
And that thick chunk
Of meat would start to think
It had more to it
Than beef.

The stupid lump.
Sometimes this ludicrous
Blood pudding gnome
Would crack, and moan
And secrete its grease
And she would come, perfumed
And sweet, with hot chorizo
And chillied olives
And put her hands down my pants
And make me eat.
And I liked to kiss her feet.

Sometimes we would decide
That doing nothing, together
Would do, but it
Did not.

Sometimes I would look
In the mirror and see
One of Goya’s girls
With her arms around
A blood clot.
She did not.

But, all things end, good and bad,
And this
did.