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All she knows is yesterday,
mocked by pictures hanging crooked on her walls,
mirrors reflect eyes too old,
dollar bills can't buy her happiness.

     Jezebel?

Thigh-high fishnet and garter belts,
exposed tattoos in secret places,
what point is there to this porno flick?
Tasteless orgasms only hunger her appetite.

Will someone ever love poor Jezebel?

A thousand lovers in five hundred nights,
ageing Ken dolls fresh from Barbie's bed;
they do not hold her.
She masturbates to dead memories of love.

Do you love your whore?

Just as the thoughts of yesterday began to fade,
evaporating on her tongue,
zealot whispers play upon the wind,
eroding the stone that is her heart,
bringing fear into her eyes;
engulfing poor, sweet Jezebel.
Life goes on with or without her.

     Where is your Jezebel?