poem for a harlot

 
 
who is this whore that comes
with the morning sun to steal
the minutes of lonely men
 
does she pause for a light lunch
Romanian salad, mint tea & a BZP cocktail
then keeps an appointment in the back room
of a motorcycle emporium
her dark-eyed executioner in his swivel chair
unbuckled, unzipped
she wraps her lips around his shotgun
for a seminal suicide
spits the evidence in a tissue
as he writes his dream on a check
 
dinner is paid for by a nervous
banker who is cheating on his wife
 
in the late warm evening
she comes to me & I fall
in the lure of her nurturing nipples
& the tender-trap of her c*nt
 
she leaves me with her craquelure promises
& medicinal kisses
& rushes off to another lover
 
-  it’s my own fantasies that cause my suffering  -
 
 
who is this whore that comes
and where did the virgin go