My secret hands
and my secret desires
can fill a theater
and entertain all the young whores
dressed for a fuck.
My heels make a click,
click.
Oh, comely nights.
in my head
about how to walk,
talk
and I don't mean
there's many causalities
I mean there's no end to the causalities.
Like Batman and the Joker,
the tedious madness
of two minds
that inhabit the same body,
the city,
fat as my psychiatric file.
There is no winner, and no
bomb, nor
truce,
a countless counting
of coups,
a shredded nightgown,
a worn dress,
scrubbed skin
of those who hands mark secret work.
Let's be honest:
I'd love to burn down
like the skirt on the floosie
in the back of the club,
how it turns to ash as she dances
to the music.
By the end of her night
the whore
will wear nothing but a slur and a smile,
her high heels snapped
from all the broken hearts she's tramping.
