Another Night of Whores
the fuckbucket slinks around
the block not unlike the tongues
of midnight in ten thousand
of them creep along the sidewalks,
too
if only i could steal myself free
of some trick’s eating of
my ass i would do it like a
tyrant’s vein
so blue in temperament all
that’s left is suspicion
he might not have the cash
we need
the money and sex work
is about the money, honey
is it avarice to need a thing
called food, a vanishing
act, and waste away do
i tell him about the
disease or do i feed him
spite
grief is an evanescence
of infidels sent by
a suckling hermitage
of hope but finding
none it spills there
inside his mouth
now, there’s your greed
the fuckbucket and the
elves take me home as
the sun’s fractured
bones sleep till noon