Monday, October 11, 2010

The Oldest Whore


He saw her face in the light of the lantern
Grooved with wisdom born of a shit luck life
Peering over the edge of time and desire
Licking her wounds and ignoring her scars

He asked for a light, she told him no smoking, she puffed
She knew he was addicted to the thought of her, not her
Her voice a rasping, disjointed echo
Like farting into a cellophane cigarette wrapper

She asked what he wanted
She told him what she had
He shuddered with delight
He took off his pants

She shouted in what sounded like tongues
“One for your whiny ass attitude”
“Two for your fat fucking ass”
“Three for your poor financial skills”

The blood leaked from the backs of his thighs
Heart beating in a jackhammer half step
“Four for your lust for an old woman’s touch”
He howled the calling card of lifes kempt man

As he hung and he swung from his leather bound wrists
She counted the money and asked if he was OK
He nodded still sobbing and jerking about
She poured them both a glass of sherry, it was going to be a long night

14 comments:

  1. Whew...what a tale of addiction and captivity ~

    I specially like what she shouted in tongues...I guess some men just like it this way

    Thanks for sharing this ~

    Heaven

    http://a-sweetlust.blogspot.com/2012/03/step.html

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  2. oh my GOD three for your poor financial skills!!
    you SLAY me. this is awesome, mister. more!

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  3. Wowzers! The very scariest thing being how much I related to the old hag, hee hee! What a story! Love the last line SO MUCH!

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  4. Yikes! This poem will stay with me throughout the day.

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  5. Wow, I guess somebody likes it rough! Very vivid description, nicely done.

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  6. Strong character studies,, a good read.

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  7. I agree with Marian, "poor financial skills" is TOO good.
    K

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  8. Had me at the title, man--but you didn't stop there. God what a way to make a living.
    "...She asked what he wanted
    She told him what she had..." there's nothing like a simple business arrangement, eh? Second stanza is pretty revelatory, the rest, you put the reader there, whether they want to be or not--excellent writing.

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  9. how have I not commented on this piece already? oh, where have you been hiding her all these long months. Funny, after reading this piece twice, I get the feeling the oldest whore is not the madame who does the lashing but her husk of a customer. As always, you have these layers which you present in a subtle matter. That be a gift, Rowley. Many a poet would not trust his reader to pick up on that and hit us over the head with it. You are a cunning, wascle, Mr. Wabbit.

    viva la

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  10. Hmmm.. not my favourite of yours for the uncomfortable truths you reveal about what goes on in small anonymous rooms the world over, but hats off to your courage in turning the sordid realities into poetry.

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  11. I think a lot of men are swept before an avalanche in the form of desires that pretty much lead them by the...nose. The congressman, the priest, the rock star who end up as tabloid fodder know this well. I expect that it isn't simply horny desire that lands them there. It's something darker, and more demanding than that.

    If I had to name one thing that the sexes don't understand about each other, it would be these: women don't really understand how demanding a male sexuality can be, and men don't understand how demanding a woman's emotions can be. This leads to a whole lot of tilted heads and wtf's on both sides.

    So sez me. Tune in next week when I explain why the earth is round. :-P

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  12. i'll echo mrs. G's thoughts, that perhaps the commentary here goes far deeper than a slightly stomach-turning mature encounter. there is a kind of dark psychology that runs, wordless, in each of us (and in so many non-personal entities) that we ourselves are at a loss to understand. metaphors abound with me, and i tend to find them everywhere, but in this case, i don't think it's something i'm imposing on the words. this feels like you're SAYING SOMETHING. and you're saying it about a lot of things.
    i love that you've created this, and let it stand. i'm struck by this, C, hanging in the gallery, and think i'll stand here a while and think on it.

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  13. My my...you have captured addiction in a rough and raw manner. Brave of you to put it out there. But isn't that what we poets are called to do?

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