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Click hereStarlight risen from the dead,
played rock melodies
inside her head.
Paint swirled across the bed
as the brush
slipped from her teeth.
Liquid whore in a bottle
it might have said
instead of five alarm engine red.
Friday night brings infamy
as the Greek chorus
sings of her descent.
Each thigh a risen loaf of bread
over each painted, spread,
starlight pulses overhead.
The "liquid whore in a bottle" line is brilliant. I am not unfond of liquid whore myself. This poem sounds like my last date.