after doors close after hours when scarlet neon flickers out red-light nights fill voids of need my body is a ripped flower my throat tingles to the burn of vodka-fire gleaning the gleaming water-washed street for an answer to the latest outstanding bill sadly grateful for the slightest footfall twenty for oral forty for full car park dark steam-heavy dark not streetwalking but streetstaggering in hollow-pod hell anaemic-ashy and vodka-fumy amorphous shadows loitering on durex-dotted waste ground in secret alleys back to dank brick or deep throating down on my knees skirt around thighs fingers come-pearled and slick come quick after doors close after hours when scarlet neon flickers out cold glitter of streetlights gleam of cold hard cash cold kisses colder touch no eye contact look away the cold nothingness that we say
Streetwalking should be a solitary affair.
Night slips through unseen cracks,
bends the scant light
into dark-eyed windows.
A gangster is in my head,
a punk, scaling my smooth skull
seeking out weak spots,
those eggshell parts
where just a light knock
will shatter years
of confidential confidences.
I'm hatless, I should have a hat.
The sky drips like a leaky faucet.
Got to shove my head inside a collar,
reach inside a thin coat,
pull out a neatly packaged,
plastic poncho
recently bought from a Dollar Store.
Time to confront
an unsolvable situation.
Time to listen keenly
for the sound of a tiny piton
tap-tap, tapping.
Chiming of the clock at midnight,
rings ominously in the shadow of city hall
Terror lurking in the fog cast a chilly pall,
over frightened ladies of the night
Tales of fear mixed with myth and fact,
helps the urban legend to flourish unchecked
Streetwalking work is an unavoidable regret,
gallows humor now part of the paid act
Whispers of a black-cloaked red hand of death,
keeps the gossip whores and tabloids talking
Police fails as the maniac continues stalking,
someone this night will breathe their final breath
Screams are heard coming from a darkened alley,
rumors said her neck had met the blade
Body is discovered by a local hotel maid,
this sparks an impromptu march and hasty rally
Citizens cry out, demanding an actionable plan,
something drastic to apprehend this monster
It is so good right now to be a Gothic painter,
selling gory images of a death-dealing red hand
There are times in a mans life when he knows he's the best
This is the time his mind and body are undoubtedly the hardest
He's focused more then ever on the tasks at hand
Making him shown as one hard man
When he endures punishment both physically and mentally
Showing his primal side in the face of his enemy
His heart pumps in a rapid course
Disregarding his weakness showing no remorse
A time when all his beliefs become fully released
Unleashing his rage like a caged beast
Precision and finesse in his movements are revealed
When gauging his trespasses on the battle field
Beaten, stabbed, ridiculed and humiliated are his burdens
During his youth as a streetwalking urchin
Bearing and strength come as and easy action
When dealing with pain of any faction.
To this my friend is a hard, hard man
Living in a kingdom of a unruly land
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