[M] Whirda's Poetry & Prose

[PepsiWhirda]

Sexual Frankenstein

I wait for them,
drunk-numb,
at the crux of two streets
trafficked by more danger
than I’ve been conditioned
to handle.

They are too good for me,
these Christian girls,
with their memory foam flesh -
their crosses, worn more
out of custom
than sincerity.

I stumble & stammer
around them,
as much a neanderthal
as when we dwelt in caves.

They are too good for me,
these Christian girls;
but at oh-god-thirty in the morning
they’re all creatured-out,
crashing like waves
for want of the sky,
& I’m the only one
who’s good for a quick fix.

I wait for them,
drunk-numb.
I wait for the smell
of Hollister & college sex -
for the slack jaws
& listless eyes
of girls who aren’t creative enough
to suffer.

I won’t be their first
of the night:
their first bump,
their first drag,
their first fuck;
but I’ll exact payment
for services rendered
all the same.

This night gets heavier
by the second.

My mind turn to you,
as it always does
when the sky turns to ink,
& the pavement to ice,
& I need the comfort
of your high-society softness.

I wait for them,
drunk-numb. They are
too good for me,
these Christian girls;
you are the heart
& the head,
but they are the gut
& the loins
& the curled toes
& the grimace
of ecstasy & of solace.

My patchwork Frankenstein love
can never be complete
without both of you.

They come to me,
these Christian girls,
at the crux of two streets
trafficked by more pleasure
than I’ve been conditioned
to think I deserve.

I take them
in the back corner of the night,
somewhere between the junkies
thanking their crank
for holding them back from the noose,
& the varicolored glint
of the moon on a knife
that will cut short a dream or two
before the night is through.

I lift their skirts
to see where empires have fallen,
& I’m glad mine fell
long ago.

Maybe some day,
after all of this,
you & I
can rebuild it.