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this is going to be something,  
that I shouldn't have written.  
 
First off,  
it ain't of no thoroughbred whimsy;  
courted through a chandelier  
of crystalline cat-calls  
 
no,  
 
it's the only whore  
drunk enough  
 
to be seen
 
with me.
 
 
Four, or  
six in the morning  
at the bathroom mirror;  
 
a back-alley physician  
with duct-taped hemostats  
and tweezers  
worn well enough  
to have aided  
the mummification  
of Akhenaton,  
 
obliterating  
any area of dermis  
that even considers blemish.  
 
This is something  
that I shouldn't have written  
 
because  
 
my shopping lists  
are too honest,  
 
and no one believes it's allergies anyway.