the churchbells outside of her
lover's window,
right after they finish fucking,
the clang is a bash to the temples
'you believe in nothing but flesh, now.'
it's a wednesday but
it sure feels like a sunday
with the cars of the religious
parked at the church next door.
her eyes are closed,
and her hair is all curly,
fresh-fucked on the pillow,
the sleep was so good,
and rifled with shamefully
erotic dreams.
the car doors slam softly
outside, a symphony
of pleated pants and
perfectly pressed skirts
filing into god's house...
and she thinks of the
cacophony of her lover's name
pressed into a scream-
and she wants to be fucked again.
of course, before the churchbells ring.