Falling fast down hovelled stairs,
digesting wealth to ransom cares,
grotesque men who soil and harrow
suspend my dreams from thinning rope.
As discharge weeps from places raw
and blisters burn a molten core,
another phallus, soiled and poisoned
wants for smack and cunny’d whores.
I bleed from wounds so deep within
of pain so stark and crude and sore
that pins me ‘neath the brine of sin
like drowning prey in spunk and piss.
I fail to dim the moving shadows:
those twisting jerks of spewed release –
but coming soon will silent growls
of dripping fat and blistered guilts.
Voiced within me, vague and distant,
something cries, yet tears withdraw.
Copious unheard pleas are buried;
here lay I, unknown, destroyed.
To burrow past unhuman men
(to further seal a keyless lock)
would ‘splay me in the public eye,
exampled, maimed, defeated; lost.
Phlegm and fur may line my mouth;
engorged, my lips, a whore for more.
But somewhere deep inside myself
I’ve walked away from Brothel Shore.
© Tamara Natividad | pisceanesque.com | Written 18 October, 2009