Ghost brick empty streets except for the freak (just a drunk) yelling Cunt! under red midday neon: the whole town’s a front
for strip joints steak houses casinos Thai restaurants. Probably brothels (it would follow).
There’s churches and barbershops they’re suspect too, port’s salacious and dead. Dead storefronts dead corners. Constance insists people live here. Writers artists she always gets
lost driving to the bookstore. There’s magic she says a certain nautical erotica finally its own genre—her lover returns from an unconsecrated bed eyes red hands trembling and it’s a real seaside bodice-ripper (with more depth
this man bears children—It’s clear these things happen.). O nymphs of moss and the Northwest in a car with the boys on the way to the coast
if the limp kelp bulb bullroarer got into our wombs what kinds of sea creatures would we choose to bear? Constance says a dolphin (smart girl slick skin) and I’d have some merthing chimerical shiny-haired.
In either case no blowfish.
It’s clear these things happen.
Do these things happen?
In the seaside market there’s a witch: busking for change gets a pink stripper cane: that crackhead sexpot guitarist has us crossing the tracks questioning good sense. The Pacific wet gets into you
quick I’m already slick: sick:
a taste of pain a bit of kink on foreign shores port’s a pretty thing: I get hot enough they want: to nibble: suck: this damned: cough dries up then it’s back
to land lock dry jobs music dimes. It’s a heavy climb out of the sea how do you choose what creature to be. Constance isn’t lost just turned around in the streets. When I read these books I’ll be smarter. Me?
When I read these books I’ll be deeper and fiery and coming out of darkness: Tonight I’m in port: Pass the nipple clamps.