Fifty-five: A Queen On Her Knees

The queen across the street fucks me
like it’s 1999. The curve of her crown
glints in the light as she guns for my
cunt.  It makes me laugh before I come.
She grins, her lips glistening with gluttony.
I stroke her hair and I say, ‘You are a queen.’
Her eyes fall up to happy little half-moon slits.

Then I say, ‘You are a queen on her knees,’  and
her eyes close over the darkness. She slips her
finger out of me and fumbles for a cigarette.
She is dirty; she didn’t wash her hands. I smile.
She is smoking me. When she looks up I see that
her mouth is sad, not angry, so I get angry for her
and then I think,
I wish I’d come all over that goddamn crown.

December 2009


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I drink, I laugh, I smoke, I write.

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