Poetry / The Lonely Whore
It starts with a spasm in the middle of the night,
slight pressure on the skull in the morning,
thoughts that tempt and escape,
then a hunger pain that swells up
from hour to hour.
He is always tugging at my skin.
The extra dust bunny hiding
in my dress shoes; never worn.
There is always space for him
on my calendar, mostly weekends.
A migrain every Saturday
lets me know my payment is due.
He is an anxious pimp; an Oliver Twist
with a modest snicker and a lazy accent.
He nudges me toward another drink,
another shot.
Maybe the easy blond
or the bold brunette will do.
X and Y between the thighs, which is which?
I don’t care anymore,
so long as
their tongue moves in a rhythm
I can dance to.
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I like all of this except the “Oliver Twist” reference. I can’t see a pimp as “Oliver,” but more like “Fagin.”
I appreciate the way this could be literally about a prostitute, or also about a barfly just looking for sex, with the pimp being the compulsion, or just about addiction. The androgeny of the piece also works well.
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