Post by Steve on Nov 19, 2007 12:34:34 GMT -5
The sun’s gone
down
43rd ave.
hobblin` away from the
dented postal box
on the corner of
Dante street,
where the
wenches are born
from the bowels
of shadows
waiting
waiting
waiting
for a car
to drive them to
whispering Pines
motel
on the outskirts of hell
so they can be pinned down
with their
butterfly dreams
onto a flaming mattress
of piss and bed bugs
that sits on an iron frame
tearing the floorboards
through the four holes
in the rug
waiting
waiting
waiting
ten minute drive
back to their corner
where they’ll stand
for hours
some nights
they’re in the car
or standing
more than laying
-or bending
sitting
squatting-
most nights
the drive takes longer
than the act
and they laugh
back on the corner
comparing size&girth
grunting animal noises
positions.
cacklin` ricocheting
against alley
sliding into closed stores
through cracks in the brick
making the windows sick
oil plastered thick on them.
other nights
the drive
is only one way
the wench
left in a ditch
along route 42
until one of the lima bean
state troopers find her
and cops a feel
dead knot nipple between fingers
daylight drying the twinkle of eyes.
night after a day as said
quiet corners of
stiff smiles
forced by frantic pimps
jumpin` at every breeze.
there isn’t any laughter on these nights.
The sun’s gone
down
43rd ave.
just like tomorrow.