WHORISH HOLE
I make the rounds
of a whore who is
more or less doomed
to feel less the more
I do it, sometimes I
pause in an unforeseen
calm, I don't care
anymore what I am.
It's drama I farm out,
making gold out of
straw by dragging it
on and on despite the
hair of the groin, a
guy on his stomach.
I garnish the void,
I gangbang the moon,
I grieve for my sad
career, as I fuck
without mercy, but
burn with goodwill,
like a snail on an
enema purge, my
job is crude but my
aura is clear.
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