the red whore

a window pane
glass fermented old
like sepia
and it is a photograph of asphalt
and archaic walls
chipped paint
water stains
behind my blinds and thru
the pane's absinthe eyes
she is dismal
and as she moves
scratchy
twisted
steps
warped softened and strange
from my side through the glass
i can muster no heartbreak
only a sick sensation of heat thru my whole body
i vomit the contents of my bloated ambition
onto the cold tile floor
a sort of mockery, unintended
to her mind; ravenous for the sustenance of
some strange amphetamine
cooked up by a nasty brother
who lives poor but does the finest blow
these eyes are fitting
for now
for her
as it is easier to strike her down
onto a distorted photograph
a little less elegant than those that hold ladies, painted and in lace
less than saints romanticized of the city's younger days
but i need her a little less real than a girl my age given up to
a greasy man named dan
the fat retired pharmacist staying at the larkin inn
across the street
where i find myself a shout out away from a date of my own
were i so taken
so i am taken away by my mind's own greeds
to hide from guilt and god and what has become of my own dreams