I used to run around with every whore in town, then times went bad,
the loose change dried up, & the whores headed south, way south,
where the nights are tropical & the days are one long siesta.
these days, I try to chase other diversions: art & music, pursuing
fine literature. but the art tends to lead to arousing nudes, &
Victorian romance simply evolves to dirty sex.
sometimes I have a drink & drift back into watercolor sheets & the
arms of a somber, impure woman, neon pulsing outside the window,
the shadows not quite obscuring the sadness of pretended love. then
I write about it, cheap poetry that nobody reads.
one evening I wandered into a bookshop, looking for a recycled edition
of Cohen’s ‘Energy of Slaves.’ the shelves were barren of Leonard’s
urban grit, so I settle for a thin paperback by Cummings or Brautigan.
a woman with dangling curls, long & dark, glanced at me briefly, then
turned her gaze back to the scattered books. I made a hasty poetic
remark & kept going, being inquisitive. she said she was going to the
park to rest awhile, & I countered by telling her I had a fresh pint of
Kentucky in my coat pocket, & might I join her.
she said okay, I don’t much like walking alone, then we’ll see about
the whiskey. we found a secluded bench under the canopy of a tree, &
I instinctively sat close. I broke the seal on the bottle, which she took &
imbibed properly, a small sip, letting it brand its fiery path down her
throat, then a little more, to bring a whispering buzz. I connived to get
her drunk, & take obscene liberties.
my hand rested timidly on her knee, & she did not dissent. I journeyed
boldly up her silk thigh; she made no complaint, but simply stared, a
thousand yards, or years.
my fingers breached her panties, feeling her feathery down. her head
tilted slightly & she sighed. gently I separated her swollen barricades, &
crept in to the ripe fruit of her female Babylon.
as I assaulted her with the push & pull of my fingers, she grabbed the thin
cotton over her left nipple, gripping it like a vice. her breathing became
gasps & her moans were the pagan lovesong of Salome’, having dropped
the seventh veil. she transformed into a woman’s storm, & it was utterly
after that, I went to my belt, to unfasten it, but she stopped my hand.
she said thank you for the drink, & hurried away.
I wondered if she made a habit of picking up strangers to get
masturbated; the cheapness of it, how desperately lonely she must
be. she’s a regular at the bookshop, I figure, but I won’t go back there.
If I sold my soul, I’d have just enough for a whore’s kiss…
(Art: Albert Allen)