Whores at the Gates of Heaven

That of the whores
it's like the wind
that hits us in the face
and cover our eyes.
The wind takes the smell
of the whores.

The wind has the mood
of the beatniks.
the wind drags
the smell of beasts
like arrows fired
in all directions.
whores still
on every corner.
whores wait
let the wind hit them in the face.

the whores seem
like blindfolded virgins
who sell veiled purities.
whores are exempt
of all sins
whores have everything
what a poem
can't say.


PAR