The harlots are dead in the street. Wrapped in
shrouds of pomegranate seeds and strings of
bloodied beads. The gods are busy pissing
in the gutters. No one wants a day-old
foot. Only one madame remains. She holds
a mouth that says, “What? You can’t imagine
death and sex in the same body? We’re all
dead fucked.” Everything makes us
uncomfortable these days. Have you stopped
reading this yet? Does this word make
your palm itch, the vein in your neck thrum?
Turn away. You can. Or you can read it again,
sitting so still and silent the haters
will begin to believe you are dead.
It’s August, MotherFuckers!
Image of my tart slip.
Words written at Umbria coffee.
Ears On ..really, don’t ask. Some people are very loud.
Time Taken six minutes?
Brain On sweet and sour. And writing. And good couches.