She’s surfin’ that dusty mirror once again,
underwear on inside-out
for the second day running
(They’re never on for long anyway!)
‘Sweetheart’ in big Fuck Off letters
tattooed around her self-harmed throat
and ‘Pay First, Sucker!’
under a pink skull & crossbones
upon the left of her Brazilian mound.
She gulps away another childhood memory
of horse riding on that farm back home
in that now psychological foreign land
with a mouthful of warm, flat Special Brew.
Punter 13 is knocking frantically at the door
(Ooooh, that’s her lucky number, usually!)
He’s sweaty, scabby, smelly & mean
but still she licks & sucks
his pathetic cock like it’s an ice-cream cone,
woodpeckering his puckered arsehole
with a viciously thrumming digit.
Punter 19 wants a ‘Shitter’
which breaks up the monotony slightly.
He comes bearing gifts,
a crack rock & spicy Indian curry first,
watches as she wallops both down,
then lays crying naked as she squats
bored over his chest and lets her arse explode.
Outside in the evening skies
owls are hunting voles and shrews,
blissfully unaware of the barbarism
going on inside the walls of this building.
Punter 22 is an easy one to finish her shift,
he cums every night, literally,
watching her lick cherries & whipped cream
from around the edge of the toilet bowl.
The next ‘Knocks’ are the Pimp & Dealer
who help her glass-pipe the days money away.
Then Prince Heroin for sleep & comfort,
unfocusing from ‘Memories’ and the Pain.
We were always one drink from
love or war in those days.
Investing quarters we could not spare
in jukebox songs we did not understand,
“I started a joke, it started the whole world crying….”
she would say and I would reply,
“It’s only words and words are all I have…”
And we would play fight with plastic
knives and forks pretending to be
characters in a play like Romeo and Juliet
on the cold side of some moon evoked in
another song, on the playlist that defined
our lives, until the fights would become
real and our time together became a B side
only kind of love, like the flip side
of “Words”. ”So I say to myself is it real?
So I look inside myself Can I feel?”
A Sinking Ship that became
Too Much of Nothing that became
a Saturday Night Fever we could never
have imagined or hoped to see.
Long before the first disco ball spun
our eyes were blinded by the light.
This loud fellow
hasn’t been coming long
you can tell by the
swagger and bombast,
“Hey bro! If the bar
you’re just pretending!”
Later, I hear him
say quietly to a woman
in the stretching area
“You a fine bitch,
bitch, how you get so fine?”
She ignores him
or maybe doesn’t
and I curse myself
for not being a man
and saying something
being a man
doesn’t seem so great.
The Mouse River wants a life
today. Stones, mud, branches are not enough.
It doesn’t want words, prefers to pulverize,
swallow midnights and grind stars
underneath — sparkle the depths.
Old grain factories
a mile around the dead weed bend
with eyeless rivets and rusted steel,
the empty guard tower of forgotten workers
picked defeat over fight:
Open mouths burned the evidence.
Walk in, rapid says. Be cold. Forget the pen.
Be decay. Lose mind to hysteria.
Become thought not words.
Back home the pork loin slow cooks.
Her mind: one thousand miles away,
locked in violence.
We are born this way.