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.


This entry was published on August 11, 2012 at 6:00 pm and is filed under August, Poems, Self-Portraits, Somewhere Between. Bookmark the permalink. Follow any comments here with the RSS feed for this post.

2 thoughts on “[183]

  1. I like this *and* your tart slip!

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