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On the corner of 43rd and Arlington she gets paid
275 to have sex with an amputee who is missing
his left leg among other things
and in the high rise apartment above an institutionalized
student turns to chapter 12, page 102
of Zazie in the Metro
and his head is filled with grenadine and transsexual entertainers
After monetary value has been exchanged for her goods
and services she moves to the middle of Burlington and 5th
not knowing that in exactly 14 minutes
she will be offered 95 dollars to suck off a man wearing a clown suite
who just got done entertaining a party on Winser and 3rd
for Anthony Kareson who turned 4 years old
and had received a savings bond that would mature in
20 years and be worth 150 dollars
by full maturity he will be 24
where 150 dollars can be easily spent
in 3 hours at Crystals Corner on Sexton and 12th
where a single mother lives above
because her husband was a sodomite
herself and her 3 children know all the songs
and all of the sets because sound travels
through thinly layered hard wood floors at night
around the time she is on chapter 7, page 84
of Prince Caspian
and everyone’s head is filled with song
A red curtain held up by brass
Woven fabrics used to occult light
And a tag for identification
Like a camouflaged body who’s function expired
Seventy percent cotton
Thirty percent other
Died in the blood of a marchiano cherry
That was picked too early
she would have been president or something
The light gets filtered through the room
Like a voice through a confessional screen
And it’s just as artificial as repentance
Projected from the sun like an overhead
It seeps through her hair
A red curtain held up by brass
The light gets filtered through the room
Woven fabrics used to occult light
Like a voice through a confessional screen
And a tag for identification
And its just as artificial as repentance
Like a camouflaged body who’s function expired
Seventy percent cotton
Thirty percent other
Projected from the sun like an overhead
Died in the blood of a marchiano cherry
That was picked too early
It seeps through her hair
she would have been president or something.
The hourglass falls from the porcelain self and distills sand onto the flowered rug that used to bloom. It looks like the last day of spring. But the skies have no blue, more of a transparent orange with a purple backdrop. Like a giant match set fire to the clouds and the wavering smoke trails try to conceal something that was so beautiful. And the horizon became so defined with the edge of a razor blade that separated every grain of sand that lay motionless on the rug. The over view is tainted in claret, that cyclically leaves one anesthetized. It excretes from swollen heals that will never heal and have treaded bare through unbearable terrain. Encompassed in the pain that blindsides from the darkest corner of an embodied heart. A light that has never been seen scorns celibate eyes that never wanted to envision such a sight and everything turns to white.
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