South. East.

filthy avenue, hum drunk streets and shake brick buildings

metal doors, rattling venomous serpent boxes

sex slave wage laborers and johnny tom cats wondering

pennies and pussies meeting closed doors, and sedans

idling, hide contempt for the cunt peddler, johnny

all wondrous, conquering the pussy meat

vending machine, no deposit no return

key to entry in the snatch is a dollar

wage weighed in groceries or dope

the pussy keeps pulling the bar, bar, cherry

on the slot machine reel, getting fucked

comfortable, to buy the milk and meth

so daddy don’t beat it, when he comes

in her mouth, out from jail cell whores

waiting, for fuck and dollars and reports

of stall door morse code, levi rivets and

belt buckle fucked against, the cheapness

of aluminum panels erected permanently like

johnny’s pink brimming pride, illuminate

the stall walls can’t speak, but they read

their contempt for, the niggers, beaners

whites and chinks, and presidents and popes

and  solicitations  for rendezvous’ for

ass fucking and dicks in mouths of

men and women and stall door closes

dirt, sugar, water

I don’t remember it clearly at all. I recall a new tattoo and you had become emboldened. Clearly I was in the wrong for some past distress that I had reminded you of. Always unsatisfied with what you got. In the end another one to the list of, “what you could be.”

Like beating off on your SAT, it’s messy and probably won’t bode well so what do you expect? I asked her to leave and she told me, “you’re no Mark Arm”