deepundergroundpoetry.com

Red Light Drug Habit.

The look in her eyes,
the wash of disdain,
the crystalised, effortless teeth inside jaw.
They are incarcerated in her mouth and held for ransom to the tongues of old men.
'Isodol.' The whispers and screams and faked-orgasms for the pleasure of men years her senior.
She stares at her own cleavage,
as the epitome of low self-esteem.
Daddy never came to those horse lessons, or dance lessons, or piano
and she was good, she was good in her youth.
A five year old star, who was washed up at twelve.
She's blooming into a rebellious fourteen year old,
and worse,
walking streets in fishnet tights, in winter, with heels that made her feet bleed and lipstick the colour of her blood on frilled, white socks.
She sniffs,
often,
and swallows, less than normal,
a drip, down the back of her throat like three-day old cum that won't wash away.
Does not matter how much gin she drinks.
She pretends, as a creature of the rebel forces, and in no way Star Wars related, that her life is golden, her man, her crystalised incarcerated teeth and her burnt little nose from the coke habit.

"Poor, little, rich girl,
poor, little, poor girl,
two walks of life,
two different sides of the street.
They have two different pay slips and standards of beauty and styles of speech
but both will die, in the same week.
Isodol was clever.
Isodol was off the street, locked in her room, scratching the walls with her bloody nails. Though her feet were healing.
Fighting for a crystal fix, with a drip like three-day old cum she just couldn't shift.
She needed the fix,
like breathing."
In Out.
In Out.
Stop little one.
You're only young.[/font]