Oh my the paint of that bitch
She wrenches it out on Mondays to
Saturdays
Saves Sundays for Jesus
Thinking about him with her
Is like rubbing her cunt right in
his face
Rust musty cod fish slippery and hot
To smear the pages between her folds
and vibrate
For the stone roll of the virgin one
sees
She’s a god damn miracle shined up
and peach
For the asshole to pay up for the
kids he doesn’t see
And the asshole writes; he writes
like a fucking chimpanzee
Whacking until the typewriter
screams
And pants like a wretch for him to
stop
And he’s giving it to her, giving it
until the oil in the metal
Fights back for the slow churn
thoughts at the women
All their slut touching and wanting
him to dance
Full cup art into pieces for her
pleasure
Makes hers hot at how much work she
makes him do
That she got him to want and care
and when she did that
They both knew he was dead
Dead because in that moment he
couldn’t walk away
All he could do was write in a
dungeon alone
But he could never be alone again
She had polluted it all with the
talk of other men’s wanting
The smutty mortgaged houses, silk
ties, land rovers, and ample seating
To fuck in the rear and afford the
bard’s pages and dancing heels
Macked-out and primed slanted down
beautiful
Because now she is taller than him
and the glare
Makes him smaller and smaller
Until he fits in a glass of Cutty
Sark and ice
And he walks in there god damn
melting
Just melting like an ink forest of
white
And nothing he writes will ever make
it anywhere
No matter how much he drinks
The glass is just bubbling over and
over in watered down shit
Shit brained lion words running to
fight another lion
Then sleep plopping down drunk and
ninety percent dead
From the insides, the eight to five
busy hum of the strut
Kept him from writing, kept him from
being with the lights
And the beautiful ugly he was
mesmerized to salivate for a tickle
And a piece of ass and fucking her
didn’t’ give him any new words
All the words were dead
Just bodies rolling over bodies
Yawning after giving head and
Running dicks through honey comb
Wondering
If this is it?
Did this use to do it?
Did the hell come out the end of
this pipe?
Sucking and sucking through a bent
straw
For the sex and the curvy slap of
hell toll
To be prepared and the scene makes
him scream awful
To ask where are all the god damn
real women who can get me off?
With legs like road maps scuffed up
like interstate exit gas station bathrooms
Rammed in for when you have to, you
god damn have to
The back seat won’t do it or the
lights are too bright
The fuckers run in without thinking
and the blank out is glorious
Like Puccini or Wagner or some
hellacious fucker who knew
How to make a god damn riot for the
money men
To get laid by the queens of silky
old money who needed priming to fuck well
To get nectar out of that peach was
perdition, but
The restroom of a New Jersey Texaco
was heaven
Slipping ass flung on the sink,
lifting skirt and driving it
As she shimmied for the hell dog
barking to be loved
As the universe warped away
For all the China and snow skis masking
tape scenery, crown molding
Give him a stall, cigarettes flung
in a urinal and a pounding door
The bottle tipped and flowing,
flowing, flowing
And I’ll show you why a writer just
has to, just has to
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