Molly has a ponytail high on her head.
She can head-gang-bang
and treat it like a flog,
spanking out your lusty prepositions--
on the floor,
in the air,
in the bed/car,
on the stove
with legs wide open,
burning up the night sky
like a high wattage light
(the black market kind,
not the pussy-special-lights-that-need-special disposal kind).
Pull her hair, like a finger,
and get used to the taste of hair because it's nice and thick
in the undergrowth,
red-headed with passion like a poisoned apple
or a smack on the derrière.
As with Dewars whisky or Milwaukee Beast,
it takes some getting used to
bright and early in the morning
of a drizzling day.
Practice makes perfect
when it comes to spurting out dominatrix commands
like a stream of consciousness
while propping both legs up in straps
as if the heels don't
hurt so good.

Don't lick your heels like a cat
or a Native American who forgot to perform a red rain dance
like a socialist gig,
a gig that spreads free sex or the automated habit of going to work
without discrimination.
Get into the rhythm of swaying and swooning to Bruce Springsteen,
but not into the rhythm of fearing to look in someone's soul
or have your soul peered into
while you tremble like Bob Newhart
and stutter like a stiletto.

Align all your chakras and shoot straight into the sky,
the fountainhead--
the fountain of the girl
on the hard head of the stud,
who has self-depracatory humor, handsome shit-brown eyes,
and a sincere heart--
thinking happy thoughts.