28 July 2008

samantha ledger

working girl

the humdrum whore;
for a penny
and there are prettier ones
that smile for less.

But I have standards,
don’t you know.

Mother taught me to wash
behind my ears,
so I guess that entitles me
to the upper class drunks;

with their avid humping
and childish giggles
as they -


wondering towards
orange street lamps
where we all hang;
some scabby corner
littered with empties and fag butts.

Us kids.

Fifteen, sixteen going on
Too much life held back
in watery eyes,

coughing up our guts
and last customers.
I would say sucker
but the irony stings;

much like the reminders
of you
and him and them and others.

Are you ugly?

I know my baby doll dress
arrests your aging heart.
There are, at any given time,

at least two of you,
or three.
Blurred vision is such a

when undressing old farts;
stifling a laugh at
colossal egos.
I forego foreplay.
Why prolong
what they came for?

One quick kiss on the forehead
and a rushed goodbye,
wife and kids to feed,
to see and tuck into bed.

So long, farewell,
have a nice life
in your 2.4 ideal.
I’ll be a good girl.
See you next week
Wave meekly as we part
and mumble

"So long Daddy."

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