C.C. told me yesterday that he is getting paid to write. Pretty good money, he says. Shit, I said, I write every day and nobody pays me anything. You're an artist, he said. I'm a whore. I'm not attractive enough to be a whore, then, I said. I'm just a slut. No money, but all the sleaze.
Today's photo doesn't look like much, I know, but you have to look closely. Nobody in the photo is looking at me except the blind guy.
And that is all there is to that.
As is true of this post. I could tell you what I ate yesterday or that I exercised or some other mundane details, but I don't have it in me.
Dribble,
dribble,
dribble.
I love the photograph so much. I have many titles and captions for it, but I cannot reveal them publicly.
ReplyDeleteI am whore now and have a reputation to keep.
Sluts are lucky. They can do anything or anyone they want.
Whores do not have options. We have to do it for whoever flashes the cash. We have to do it how they want. AND we have to pretend to enjoy it and tell then it was the best time we have every had doing it.
It is much better to be a slut.
You keep being an artist. Somebody has to.
ReplyDeleteDawn and Vanity
by Edward Peterson
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Vanity was in my charge last night
I often work as her driver and bouncer.
In the car, we shared a few rails.
And under hot palms covered in plastic light
she revealed secrets,
how she would lick her finger and gently rub the anus
while employing only thumb and forefinger on the shaft
to make her hand feel smaller, more delicate
and, of course, she would stare up
with girlish eyes while they
moistened her plump lips and chin
and she always made them come quick.
(Not like she's paid by the hour)
Well, I had to take Vanity home
because she had her kid for the weekend.
I can't remember a name,
just a round, funny face
glowing in the fast cold television cuts
of cereal commercials and poorly disguised
appeals to pedophilia
The valley, hot and huddled,
crawls with mantises and widows
and nothing but tumbling bushes so far from home,
and my wife remains in Texas, or maybe leaving with a bright red face,
pregnant with hurt and trouble, seeking revenge or happiness
not even god knows where...
God...crank...cool sapphires
Bozo, with a gun in his red shoe
and the sky is not blue
it's chowder
__________________________________________________
Dawn has come and gone
and her vaporous heat loiters, smoking on the pavement
in the California desert.
Vanity, lathering up her cunt for a quick shave
(we perverts like 'em bald),
soaps in the shower
steams her smooth dark skin
scrubs away her night while scrambling choices with a foil pipe
that flares with an instant heat
then smolders with wound licks bright
as Christmas morning in Ohio
Vanity has not cried in years.
She passes the pipe
as my piss tumbles
into the turbulent water below.
Years? We play with minutes, like coins.
Since we were talking about sluts and whores.