Carrie Leigh’s Hugh Hefner Haikus

Hef brings me flowers tiger lilies, ochre veined downcast, sleek black cups small shadows, are the puckers in his pyjamas where his skin caves in tired profligate, I sigh and pour the oil along your circular sheets thinking of all the times, or women on this bed glossy old bunnies I imagine their breasts, plate of fried eggs, a row of tonsured monks’ heads his tongue slithers, gaunt voluptuary, ugly old man, my eyes close when I roll his name Ner. along my tongue, like the line of cold test tubes thin bottled semen, he wants to plant it, deeply in my flat belly Hugh junior, and, or Carietta, a child is packed in dry blue ice in silk pyjamas they have an emperor’s crest it is dark in there but it’s cold as the green jacuzzi, bubbles are clouds on its face I will crush the glass with the fingers in his back and pile on my rings and all the fur coats and move down the circular stairs, bloated with gold the flowers are a venus-flytrap, with red curls flames and noxious breath his betrayal gives me granite fists, girls scatter movie stars crumple as I run away, from the gaudy prison cell, of tinsel and skin I’ll sue him and write and build a home, in the desert, on the sun a sequined empress, a mirage—in loungewear and harlequin glasses