I have made a vocation for myself.
It is just as good as any other.
I wake in the morning, thirsty from my slurry state.
Then, I disinfect the marks from the night before.
She is the stalk of six faces.
Six mouths and tongues that neatly work together
To construct a mechanic whore house.
I am the iron guard.
The gates for which you seek have been cauterized.
My ribs were splayed open like a test subject.
Small, particular medical tools lined up
Against my bare skin, ready to be picked up
She, the ram, broke her horns in halves.
These rise like small houses-
Empty inside from an affair long ago.
On the night my mother abandoned me
She fucked a man for a meth pipe.
I am the gambled baby, a product of a
Junkie’s exchange in the lonely streets
Of wet Los Angeles.
When I turned five, I scoured the sidewalks
For just-used cigarettes, wrapping my small lips
Around the filters, sucking away, hoping it would
Connect me to her, to them.
This is my career.
I’m sucking away at black-tar.
I never feel any better, never fuck any better,
Never taste any better, never look any better.
I’ve taken my Bible and have masturbated to Judas.