lesmels

I'm Not A Poet, I Just Sleep With Them

I spend too much fucking time hanging out with poets,
Artists and liars, and the breathing exemplifications of Parker's mythos
Concerning those who 'do things'; or dangling participles...
Something of the nature
Of a foreign language conjugated solely in verbs of indifference and sympathy;
Between which there lies a few bed sheets,
And dirty towels,
And nothing of distinction,
Save this: two rapidly firing synapses discharged unequivocally, like pistols on 2nd ave or Ann st, render one more glitch in the matrix: save that I have one and not the other;
Which is usually the case,
Being a poor daughter of cathouse virtues,
A figure from the gloaming, a ride
A rusty and pallid excursion,
Viscera: warped membranes of red lights and mirrors; weathered plasticine for skin
topped with a maniac grinning.
You've seen me, probably calling out to passersby for change,
the multiforms of monopoly money,
And pirate's booty.
I am always bereft and hungry, and sad.
But it's the artists, and the liars, and the poets, and the verbs
That send my stomach reeling...

This is the part of the ride you pay for.

Inside my fairground's chest,
Hands in the air, you circle on rails
The breadth of a street pigeon's wingspan.