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seamed

room and stockings
traffic lights cast judgement
through
greasy panes
as they dance
silhouettes of indifference

unknown breath
expensive strokes
upon cold skin

time spins slowly
as the hungry belly awaits
coup de grace

puny life
looted

rations scraps
the feast
of burlesque nights
swathed in deaden sweat

unwashable repent
upon tarnished opulence

thoughts swim
as body awaits its fee
cast upon the table

I bow to thee

Editing stage: 

Comments

It is, regrettably, the first piece of yours I have seen. I have an aversion to free verse, but I confess much of it has moved me in the past.
This has me a bit confused and that troubles me. I feel it is about a prostitute, but the fact that it doesn't say this clearly to me makes the poem difficult.
The language is rich, but it doesn't always take me where you want me to go. Does that make sense? I see a talented poet in the words, but the context eludes me some.
It may simply be over my head.
I have been reading John Dryden of late and though the language is magnificent I often have trouble with what the hell he's talking about. Therefore it may be only me.
But those are my thoughts.

W. H. Snow

A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds. Percy Bysshe Shelley

Learn how, teach others.
The NeoPoet Mentor Program
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two fifteen on a Hot tangible sweat and salt thursday..
the creeks swift and steady...
the fat green sated urban forests rich
the pavement hot and gritty..
coffee in percolated urns
cold chilled release
and the dealer with their alms...

Spoilage

I soak this in
refreshed and awakened
Listening to Raveonettes
I Want to Be Adored...
(Former stone roses song)

I remember the seventy five dollars
for Clinique
I feel the texture of our history
on my skin
the winter folly of flakes
falling from a dark storybook
storyboard

comfort in our arms
pressed against each
other in need
when the dreams
enriched awoke
...

excellent Poetry Poetess!

Your writing awakens in me a wild
and hot need..an animal...
perhaps someone you fed
from your pale small palm
someone you patted once
on the head
matted bloodied and dirty..

service long ago in the broken traces...

pull me to you

and I shall awaken...

I seldom even bother with your posts anymore. The best poetry on site is in your comments.

W. H. Snow

A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds. Percy Bysshe Shelley

Learn how, teach others.
The NeoPoet Mentor Program
http://www.neopoet.com/mentor/about

nothing much left to say
nod to the king

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