Sex and Murder Magazine

By Joseph M. Gant

when you buy into the night,
the notion of fucking a contortionist
who sells pretzels by day,

the body tells the time in twisted acts
you can’t perform without
the groans of dedication’s itching aim,
and aging inside of youth.

and you try to make the pretzel girl,
so pretty,
framed in ankles,

smile. the body just fails—
designed to
do so, aches of years amplify
the mind’s
callous prominence of one
lone yesterday.

the game is over and your balls just itch.

and you see on her face, the wondering
thoughts of want and disappointment.
_____. . . mustard and salt
________can I help you sir . . .