deepundergroundpoetry.com
love is the last whore
sad like the rain, she writes;
she gets awful poetic when she misses me.
if I’m down with a dame, she must’ve walked the streets.
I figure there’s a little woman in every whore,
and a little whore in every woman.
I help her strip, ‘cause I didn’t come here for poetry. I grab
her kinda rough & kiss her hard, I ask her if this is what she
wants, I tell her to say my name.
John, she says, and yes….. yes.
after the rain, a strobe light effect makes the curtained window surreal:
maybe it’s the rolling moon, maybe passing traffic. the blue mood of
the night lays thick on us, a drifter who stumbles awkwardly into the
anger of sex, & a girl who never wanted to fall in love.
my mouth is quick & brutal, deep into the blushing tribute of her
vanity, as I taste the honeyed venom of desire. the things she says
add up to the dirty words in a trashy love story, & the way she says
it breaks my heart.
sure, my pistol-whipped paragraphs always sound like a merger
between desperate noir & despicable fantasy, but if told you
her name, you’d know it was real.
a tense goodnight lingers mutely in our eyes & the rain begins again
as I drift back to my solitude, contemplating the vision of her pretty face,
where I’ve left dripping reminders of myself…
(Art: Gary M Photo)
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