This hooker and that

Five dollars and twenty
men pugfaced & balding
crowd her into each of their corners.
They leave and leave
her there among her roaches
smoking each piece of her
long to their wives, then to their sisters,
counting holidays and the women
in their lives. Sometimes
people return your call,
huffing, quiet, nearing Spring
when, unearthed, they remember some things.

The man near the children begins
the long count of his scars.
The children near the man begin
unearthing the campgrounds,
spotting eggs where there should be
some few dollars in the paltry corners.

____

Since college is so soon upcoming and I’m sure to attempt suicide once or twice over the summer, I’m attempting to return to poetry, one of very few things which I can admit to not wasting time on. Obviously, the narrative format of this is an homage to Cummings, as is, of course, every screaming ejaculation. It turns out even sharp razors turn rusty.

Any bitching on rhythm or the title will be appreciated.

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~ by Jeremy on April 15, 2010.

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