I Wake Up In the Arms of a Red, Red Sonnet

Warmth sought in places other than hollow
hell, my arm lies flaccid on a couch ripped
and torn from syncopation and spit.
Stockings spoiled by a bastard’s elbow.
No kissing please. No! No kissing please, sir.
Who took your innocence away the fifth
time? When did you start adding ketchup to
chapped lips? May I baptize your wrinkles with myrrh?
Just don’t say ‘prenupts’ or ‘pap smears.’ Aroma
of something more purple than brown. Crust on
bullet casings or mattress springs left by writers
of all sizes. Her hair caramel whispers
that there is a rhyme scheme— but it’s a cold one.
Rifts in my pen cause the room to spill blue.