Saturday, October 5, 2013

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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