City of Sin

Tabaco stained skeletons rattle from the gallows in my closet, above the hydroponic garden I call Eden, where I’ve discovered sin. A ceramic snake shines in the light of an artificial sun that illuminates my sexless bedroom. Eve lives in my laptop, I downloaded her from Redtube. She’s candy-apple red and dripping. I want to put my teeth marks on her, but I know she’s not real. Hentai’s lies are a gospel misleading millions of fucked up teens.  
 
Porn is bad when you’re as high as I am, off of two forbidden fruits (one from my closet, the other from the web). Damn, the internet is a sprawling metropolis with some scary neighborhoods. I guess you can say I’m from the hood when you ask what sites I hang out in. I throw up signs on monitored forums that rep YouPorn, not with a hand but with fancy typography that shape the letters.  
 
I scower the back-alleys of Mocospace.com looking for prostitutes who charge nothing but a pic, who truly love their job and are clean from this distance. I take a few of them back to my inbox, just one of my many apartments scattered throughout this virtual city that has no limit and is bigger than the world.
 
In the orgasmic darkness before dawn I kick them all out, deleting their messages and blocking them while I roll up frosty fruit from my Eden in the glow of Mocospace’s skyline visible from the window of my monitor. I saved their pictures, though, and hung them in a file called “my private gallery” protected by a password only a distinguished nude collector like me could remember. I smoke a joint and sit back in this secret room admiring every trimmed or bushy inch of bodies worn by women I’ll never talk to again. Whose kinky usernames will never rise to the starry surface of my stoned memory.  
 
Admittedly, deep down I’m scared of love. I’ve met hundreds of people in this city and fucked half of them in my various apartments high in the skylines of different sites. Maybe I’m hanging out in the wrong burrow. Maybe I need to take a ride on the underground search-bar to a different place, on the northern tip of town. As I type, I notice this ride is filled with obscure suggestions spray painted and inked onto the empty seats by those who have been here before me. I glance, then pay no mind to them. I’ll get off at the station of my choosing, I’ll know when I’m there.  
 
I want to share my humble beginnings as a self-medicating gardener with someone. Tell her how I became a celebrity in this fabricated world then let her move into one of my apartments with me, where we’ll talk all night until she finally gives me her phone number. I’ll call her, and fall in love with her British accent from halfway across the real world. Talk about how we grew up in the same virtual burrow and traveled north to find love. All while we were thousands of miles apart — in shitty, real, apartments in quiet suburbs.  
 
Eventually we’ll build a garden in the walk-in closet of our new home, where we’ll lose our physical virginities then smoke sinless pot in Denver without owning even one stick of incense. We’ll open the shutters for sunlight that rides in on the rails of a breeze. This is the harsh point when I realized I’ve fallen asleep on the keyboard, and missed my stop. I walk away from my laptop and open the blinds to a rain-streaked window. The drops glisten in this divine sun, which is just one of the countless stars that alien lovers kiss under.