The Misogynist

He's talking about cunts again.
Bitch, whore, he's got the lingo.
The momentum of a memory
behind him.
Some fictional
dreamtime lover.

Don't know what would
drive him to that.
Jazz wails from the CD player in the back.
Perhaps this is his mourn song.
A sad lament of sopping cunts.
Or maybe he's just cashing in.
In his excitement he reads: "Like a whore on payday."

His words, these images dance around him.
They're his women.
And they please him,
as they bend, spread and wilt
at his whim.