poem: a Shepard’s Lament

12 Apr

a Shepard’s lament

he lay
torn and bleeding
fisted deep by frenzied lust
she never mentioned her name
but left a single word
written across dust
in blood

devoid of meaning
transfixed by his own suffering
laying in a manger
of dirty clothes
and spoiled sundries
each cough produces
a chunk of lung
he thought might be the last

and when the doorbell rings
and it rings a thousand cries
Cinderella arrives
in her tornado silk stockings
Pierre LaMont mustache
penciled on her lip
a twelve inch dildo in her pocket
her smile as tame as a shrew

the fix is in, she says, here comes the fix
she drops her works atop
a cum stained bed-sheet
cooks it up
sucks it up
ties him off
rolls him to his stomach
arms splayed, nailed to the bedpost

she fucks him until his cries
sound like lullabies
and the lady upstairs
stops pounding the floor
and the cops lose interest
from the start
and a priest crosses himself
as he passes a ground floor window
and two hookers smile, think about masturbation
then smoke cigarettes and
a young boy looks up suddenly and
spies an albatross flying across
Central Park

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