Sex and Murder Magazine

By Melanie Browne

He told me
and the
mostly-empty bar
about
the
red-light
districts

what they all
had in
common,

& The more
he drank

the more
extravagant
his lies,

becoming
more graphic
with each shot
of Jägermeister,

When he finally
Passed out
on the floor,
lying among
all those
discarded
peanut shells,
I felt sad
for him,
knowing
for a fact
He’d never set
Foot out
of Lufkin,
Texas,

I knew he’d
never
partied
in Copenhagen,

never
experienced
the enigma
of a Gropecunt
Lane.