Conversation With a Recovering Sex Worker

"They all have a prize" she said,
"Each woman out there is willing,
has, probably is at this very moment,
selling herself for something.
Some do it for love, others for money,
there are those who do it for need
be it food drink or drug,
others just like the way it feels
to have a cock inside of them
that loveless embrace and meaningless fuck,
with some cash thrown on top
anything is good enough for them to cum."

She sips her coffee,
lights another cigarette
and as she looks down
cup in one hand resting on the table
bitting her pinky finger
then taking a big drag of smoke
and as she exhales she says

"But all of those women,
especially those who do it
for money or for drugs,
will have to fuck guys who are just dirty,
their cocks unwashed for days
with that white smegma shit on them
and who knows what else!
That rancid sweaty smell–
some stinking of garbage
others just violent assholes. You know,
the moment they close that door
those women are slaves to those men,
sex slaves. They've sold themselves
for twenty thousand pesos, their freedom
for one hour, they belong to them."

She takes another drag from her smoke,
her voice is shaky, her grip on the glass is tight.

"Those men are the kind of people
who'll do all sorts of perverted things,
especially to a young woman,
they like to see a pretty face wince in pain,
a pleasurable agony."

She looks towards the green mountains,
past the city skyline, past the busy and working city
as a serene air comes through the large windows

"I stopped doing that a long time ago,
sure I have my price, but it isn't some thing
just anyone can pay for. I gotta like you,
you've got to buy me dinner,
take me out dancing, show me
a good time around town.
Then, when we are back at your place,
then, and only after we've met MY
expectations, then you can ravage me,
or I you. Well, not you you, but
you know what I mean, don't you darling?"

She snuffs her cigarette.

This is the ebb of the tide of our love

I asked her if she was going to sell her body again
she said she didn't want to talk about it right then
so there was something to talk about
something to be aired

It wasn't hard to figure out,
she was making ends-meet when I met her
then once we hung out
she told me of all the evil things in her life

her boss who is always asking for head
because he said he needed to get off
it made him feel better, she said
his balls hurt, it was the clap

when I first noticed it
I showed her what was going on
she thought that always happened
that it was normal in all men

before I had gone to her work,
because she invited me to
every day she said I made her feel safe
for two whole months.

She was still working,
not making enough money
although the designs all went out
she made a measly dollar per

though when she staid on
without me there
doing her deed in the bathroom
she could pay
for her babys' food and then some

so she told me one day
it is over
that is that, I cannot have this with you
She got new clothes and make up

Her shoes were also new
everything about Her changed
Her demeanor towards me
there was another man

other men
the smell on her, the ebb
in her
unnatural

clap
slow
patient
rising out and through

and that fucker told her it was normal
for your dick to drip like that
and she believed him
bringing it into our bedroom

I loved her
with every ounce of my being
although with this betrayal
I could only learn to forget her

and these realizations were just the beginning...

Contrary to popular opinion I want to LIVE!

When your life is a roller coaster
you've got no choice
other than to take that ride
enjoy your time in the light
shadows and spikes
like a neon forest
climbing up the side
its glow engulfs you just
as you fall down so hard
as you fall down so far
that the only thing you've got
is that breath
coming quickly in and out
you're so in love with it
you're so in love with it
with yourself, and that is okay
because we all want to live
we all need a break

"No, sabe que? Todo bien." Ella dijo.

It is a brand new day!
Gracias por las lecciones
De nada por las lecciones
I loved every minute inside you

De tus ojos
Y aun asi
me hayas dejado
quemando por dentro,

Estoy feliz.
I am happy,
because it didn't feel right
towards the end there.

It became something of a joke,
My love for you.
Que Dios os bendiga a los pecadores
Ahora y en la hora de nuestra muerte,

Amen!

Que sigamos resando
por perdones ajenos, queriendo
momentos prestados
nunca devueltos.

Cambio de papeles
Click Click Click Click
Alma capturada digitalmente
The Ghost In The Shell, it

Whispers sweet nothings
to an ear eager to please, just then
emotions become toys
la lengua en la oreja.

There is something to be ware of:
Te ame.
Verdaderamente lo hice,
pero eso fue, y no sera.

En el nombre del Padre,
del Hijo, y del Espiritu Santo.

Trying

I waited to throw out the cigarette butts with your lipstick on them. I just couldn't bring myself to before, but now it's no biggie. I guess it's my way of cutting it out of me.

Lunar Pirate

Naked With Sour Girl

When she used to grab my shoulders, digging her nails
into my skin at the rhythm of our fucking, it used to be
enough to almost make me explode inside her. Now it’s not
enough to just have her nail marks on my back, I want
her bite marks on my neck, I want bruises on my sides
from her thighs wrapping themselves hard around me
as I pound and choke her into ecstasy eternal, my balls
covered in our cum.

There was something about needles that always
perturbed me, something about the way they would
plunge into my veins and then made all that liquid
disappear. It just never seemed natural. Then
one day I had my first taste of an opiate, intravenously,
and my relationship with needles changed drastically.
I had never felt such exhilaration at the elation of that hard
steel needle, plunging through my being, penetrating me,
then releasing its payload into my vein. It still
makes me hard every time I think about Sour Girl, my heroin.

Now this old companion has grown, it has
made its way into the circles I keep and
without fail has taken the heads of
a few people I’ve escaped hell with. There is
something to be said about the ones who have cut off
their own strings and burnt their own bridges, but that
is another poem all together about floating corpses
in the milky waters of the river Alf.

Gin used to taste terrible, its strong flavor would
make the sides of my tongue burn, the place where
my jaw and skull met would ache, much the way Vodka
makes me feel today. Then it was distasteful, but today
it is what I usually like to order, and with a simple “Gin
and Tonic, please,” my youth slips down my throat.

Speedy drugs had never been something I wanted to try,
look at, or even get into. Time starts to change its flow as
one gets older though, the days get shorter, the change of the seasons
becomes more apparent and enunciated by the aching
muscles and bones. To keep up through the pain and fatigue,
now there will always be methamphetamine.

Sometimes it is easy to forget when I meet you,
sometimes I’m reminded after I pass you.
It is not so much that I’m afraid of you,
but of the experience I’ll be missing. I eat my drugs
and drink my gin, toasting to old friends I’ll never see again.

Postcards to Hitler

Correspondence with heaven, send a letter to see the devil

Spend a lifetime waiting for a response. We just didn't know,

there was no way to know. Everything fell into place when we feared

our own shadow as it made its way to hide behind us, we faced him

it was then that we drew, our conclusions became delusions

floating on the ether, high upon the clouds

riding the back of Pegasus, the winged muse of hope.

Post apocaliptic soft release party

As it turns out things are well. To my readers, or those who just stumble upon this site, finally there is something about my life that I can say I am excited about. Will start English Pedagogical studies in about a months time. What does this mean? I will be able to teach English here in Colombia, South America; or even a far away place like China. I really want to get away and see the world, there is so much to see, to taste, heart breaks to feel, loves to miss, and strange looks to be had! Hahahaha. Truly though, I am blessed in the sense that I have finally fallen into a groove which makes me want more than just a 9 to 5 with 401K, a wife, kids, and a dog named spot. I don't want any of those things. I want to gorge myself with reality, with life and the air of far away lands. I wish to sit beneath a giant tree in India and hang out with Yogi's. All of these things I wish to do, and they will happen.

I left the US because they wanted to turn me into a statistic, and I will not be made just a number of. I would much appreciate if the state of the United States made itself aware of the erroneous ways of what it is making its' people live. Either way, I escaped the prison state, and I find myself thankful for the experience itself. It is not easy to live something like that, and walk out unscathed. I am very lucky.

Still though, one person still runs through my mind. She will always do so. I do not understand my obsession with Sour Girl. It was her genius, her soft fingertips, the silky strands of her hair, possibly her eyes, or the soul which laid behind aching to be touched. Still I see her in my dreams, her voice is a voice of reason for me, and every time I happen to make a good decision it is her who I envision pleasing by doing so. I do not understand my sickness, all I know is that I still ache for her, and although she will never speak to her, I sometimes hope she peeks in here for a bit of my insanity, and knows that I have not forgotten her.

On Lizards

She coils like a snake
shedding her skin habitually
leaving remains of who she was,
or rather pretends to be,
along with the carcasses
of those she's consumed,
eaten whole, swallowed,
perverted.

There is a glimmer in her blue eyes
every time her tongue sticks out
to sense the air around her,
tasting for a fix, hoping
to feel the warmth of the cold night.
A field of dust is laid before her
she crawls upon it with belly swollen,
the last victim of her bite.

She leaves trails behind
as her body moves, a straw,
clearing the powdery surface,
revealing beneath the rotten ground
kept from sight, hidden,
until her swift movements
clear a woven path visible
to those who dare pay attention
to the swollen mess that is left behind.

She coils around again,
having found comfort
upon the tiled bathroom floor
of a broken down house
with cracks on the walls
as it tries to hold up the sins of a past
which extends thousands of years.
Poe would have cried
at the sight of such visage.
Skin flakes, scales glow,
her long tongue sticks out into the night
as her brilliant mind is numbed away.

It's Okay

Trust issues disappear with age

once we realize

no one is to be trusted.

It is okay to tell yourself

that it's okay.

Trees will still sway

rain wont stop falling

your hair will stick to your back

and your dress will be see through

as long as you don't trust anyone

it will all be okay.

Don't forget to tell yourself,

it will all be okay.

In the shadows of betrayal,

it is best to not allow the knife inside,

with its wriggling motion—

a solemn reminder of being alive,

and that is the whole point

isn't it?

Pain is little reminders

of being alive.

It all becomes a part of the great show

curtains drawn

spot light on

and it's your turn once again

to shine.

So you better do your best

to hold the tears back

when it's her face you pine for

but it's the back of her head

you'll always remember.

Temporary Crossing

When I tasted you

it seemed like something

we'd already done,

maybe a life time ago -

in another dimension,
another dream.

Lips kissed yours
as the tongue caressed your open smile

and with each lash you moaned,

back arched, hands lead
to squeezing proud tits

with little mounds,
standing to attention,
my attention.

Soft feel of thighs
against shoulders,

moaning pleasures

of a kissed connection,

sound waves in the dark.

Lost for hours

between your meat

whispering sweet nothings

into you.

Never want to be found.
Fuck our escape.
Let us be.

There is no place (to loose your head) like home.

There is no place like home
it's a quaint little chant
said by people far away
in worlds filled with flying monkeys
talking lions, metal men,
and the occasional stuffed brainless idiot.

There is no place like home
where the heart is
where the mind rests
a place to hang your hat
a nice niche to call your own
a world packed with comfort.

There is no place like home?
Another day between four walls
spent time seeping through fingers
as the bacon grease smooths hair
cholesterol is just another name
they give to the golden goodness in the veins.

There is no place like home
to loose your gourd
speed through movies
reduce the vitality of self control
triumphantly cumming on their lips
after an hour of oral fixation.

There is no place like home
to isolate and enslave
the last bits of humanity
to which one holds on so dearly
as to not loose bits and pieces
along the way, trotting
down a path all too well known.

There is no place like home.

Possibilities are endless, but tell that to a corpse.

In the moments between sleep

with the shades drawn and

allowing just glimmers of sunlit

reflections of an everlasting green

that seeps its way onto walls

well known and forgotten,

breaths escape from lips

which are too tired for anything or anyone.

In between the covers

there is a corpse,

or soon to be at least,

and as a mind winds down to moments

captured and preserved

in formaldehyde filled jars

stacked around the room,

the realization strikes

that these memories

just don't taste the way they used to,

a realization made

as this bed which was

kinder to passions untold

becomes a coffin

once the covers wrap around

to keep and swallow whole

in the warmth and knowledge

of being dead to the world.

Dead to SourGirl.

FML (Inspired by Stitches)

You know, it's okay
life gets better
no need to
fornicate it

Sky Line

I'm a literary hobo,
jumping trains of thought.
Never staying too long
in one place, unless
something makes me do so.

Peaches

Her black hair flows over her shoulders
like the weights of time weigh upon mine.
Except her's is beautiful,
while mine is just a reminder.

A reminder of a clock counting down,
but who is to say that death itself is not beautiful
that the act of disappearing is not joyous,
only to be left in the memories of the few.

Coming up my throat I feel a snake crawling
inching it's way past my esophagus
cutting off access to lungs
and all of this is just one instant.

She waves a salute of goodbye,
never knowing when that bright smile
kind eyes and soft voice
will inundate the soft recesses of my mind

where pleasure is stored
and create a chemical reaction some have come
to call love, making me addicted to you.
I wonder how long this withdrawal will take.

How long my veins will ache
and my head will pound screaming
"more... more... more..."
with rivers flowing from those orbs

which knew and gladly accepted
the glow of your being
the curves of your body
the taste of your words.

Time stops when I'm around you
and death takes a step back.

Q

Thom York sings
through speakers.

Melancholy leaves stains
only wisdom helps to clean.

Oceans are abysmal and dark
as is the id of humanity.

Kurt Cobain liked heroin
he even fell in love with one.

Only time erodes the facade
which people use to sustain normalcy.

Chaos is a symphony.

Dancer

Dry mouth
chapped lips
fingers twitching to the beat
of base and drum
electronic arpeggios
inundate thoughts

Imagine her in her skirt
dancing to the beat
hips accentuating motion
as her body follows closely
like an enchanter
seer of visions
hair over her face
sweat pouring down her back
bare feet

The dust of the evening
seldom settles

Thinking

Tropical weather
topical anesthetics
copious and copacetic
moments washed up in the rain
as complimentary peanuts
are served with a hepi pen
contraceptive wet dreams
of triangles in obtuse realities
commence a new day
once the sun goes down.