New York Revelry

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The sun reflects from their tinted window
burning the passing children
playing in New York street
purchased from the vendor
for a foot job behind Denny’s

we hum in the jazz bands
just downtown
gospel for the people
every Sunday morning


we’ve been advised,
strap down the audience
tickle their ear lobes
with the sharp part of mother’s favorite spork.

I had almost forgotten
the septic taste of ignorance
the self assurance of bigotry
we’re all a twinge sick
the apelike growth
in the furrowed brow
plucking away excess.


How many of us have
been caught straying
to where we don’t belong?

Modern Day Monroe

She stands at the bus stop
Monroe piercing
lonely, starry-eyed
she sifts through the gutters
for halvsies
and whatever smells
of marijuana

She stands
four inch heels
waiting for the number 6
so she can get to the poor part of time
town

and suck the cocks of men
that resembles her father
loosely
and for money
the last time she saw her father
posters of Monroe paved plaster
and stuck her face
for the name

she tried college
her report card
consistent
A big red C-A-B
Passing, sucking off
back of a C-A-B
the best grade she’ll recieve
until after he cums.

Daddy always read the big words
out loud
She was an investment
So he’d sound it out for her

I-N-C-A-R-C-E-R-A-T-I-O-N

Sometimes when she’s working
she remembers laying on the couch
her legs on his lap 

I-N-C-A-R-C-E-R-A-T-I-O-N

Now he knows the definition better than anyone
and she still loves, but fails to forgive

there are some words in that dictionary
too foul to remember. 

Holding or Held by the Leash

Always the fight for inertia.
And when the pressure adds up
And I start to give
You’ll pick me up out of my gutter
I know I can count on you
bitch

Children being worked and trained in third world boot camps
Sex trafficking
To first world buyers
Women shunned and shamed into slavery
The slashing
“Bitch”
exasperated bigotry
All of the abuse
All of the self pity
All of the apathy
All of the sweat shops in third world countries
All of the sweat shops in our country
All of the desk jobs
The fate we’re all doomed to.
Sometimes I find I’m
Walking with a leash

Unpublished

You and me like
Broken heroine needles and poetry

Mother likes it. Published. Sold to the one generous man living on the corner. He knows better than anyone what it’s like to be alone. Unnappreciated. He buys the poetry no one else does
because he knows,
Trying to make some money and the writing may never cut it. It’s time for prostitution, for masturbation, for anything I can do for the few extra dollars on the street side. All I do is walk, write, and read and I love it. I’d walk more if I wasn’t stuck in this form. My feet blister after only several hours of walks a day. It’s alright, but I wish they would turn to calluses. I have a whole world to explore and I don’t have time to wait for my feet (tootsies) to catch up. So fucking tired.

Prostitution: A different means to fame

There is a poor boy behind the counter
I tell him what I want
How I want it
And by the next day
It’s carved into the inside of the eyelids
Tatted in bright red ink,
To make sure he never forgets my name

He’ll be the only one to remember
He’ll be the only one to know I’m famous

He makes it for me,
I’ll eat enough to make this ass
In torn daisy dukes
To not look good,
after a night of perspiration
When you’re alone
And it’s 7 in the morning,

Like Whores

I work until I’m blistered
Like stockings on Christmas eve
My esophagus is filled to the brim
With toys and a curiosity
That reminds customers
Of a child

My sentences are no longer coherent
What good is my voice
If I can keep that cock standing
Under the tip of my tongue

But I never have problems
Putting plump fingers
Where they don’t belong
In the body’s
Dark alleyway

Yank up the skirt
Be proud of this boiled bitch
Hopping
On the senator’s
Pogo stick

I know how honorable
anal plugs
and swallowing
a stranger’s
steam
can
be.

The Female Market

Please
Thank you
Eye lining strippers

Touch me
Fuck me
You’ll be my server

Have a nice day
You’ll be genuine, loving
Sexually addicted,
As long as I pay

Big, Fast Cars
Orange women
The margarita at the bar

Big Guns
Big knives
Tools of the
slave trade

Behind the Days Inn

In the cemetery of the youth
frantic junkies frisking
For the frequented fix

Body odor orgies
Wasteland ovaries
And spurting seed like
Northwestern rains

Motels rented by the hour
Where love can be
mimicked long enough
For neither to know
The cold reality

fairies
and Cinderella
are from stories
the desolate
create to delude
and lobotomize

But 12.50
a night
Is too costly

Crack rocks
Copulating in the dying grass
The same patch
On which
I was conceived

Hepatitis party favors
And needles passed around
Ancient family heirlooms
Tradition

We all shoot up with the same needle
That did in Grandpa
When he got wise
And noticed the hungry cats
In the corners of
Sterile hospital rooms
Doused in the gasoline of aging
Drifting from sappy faced reunions
Into the void