La petite mort

You can’t help but hear the thunder of shutters, the lights. None can help now dear. Her glossy lips, her derriere against which the blond man fights. You can’t help. But hear her moaning, traced with fear, punctuate with fucks and gods, trite. None can help. Now dear— how’d you land this gig, ear to some producer, rear hot with bites? You can’t help but… Hear her laughing, drug-fueled, tears splashing onto her swollen chest. Nights, none can help. Now deer run through her dreams, Diana, the moon is lost—the sky is filled with blood. You can’t help but hear: None can help now, dear.