Strange comfort in the idea of whores attendants at the great feast of needs half naked lunch ladies, breast or thigh? their endless shifting, pooled to the edges of a brushed metal tray a whore armed with her ladle neatly apportioning desire, ennui distant sirens catch on her hairnet blues shift, endless in your night sirens punctuating the hollow clicking of thin heels. may i?
Sunday, May 8, 2011
May I call you, John?
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