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   POETRY > The Artist

Gray smoke curls

In front of her

Nimbus hair; she gestures:

'Come here', as if to say.


"Are you afraid?"

Her clothes are covered in

Gray snow falling, falling...

Rotting right in front of

My eyes.

"You're afraid, aren't you?"

She mocks, spitting.

The spot very near where

My feet are planted.

Gray; Eyes like

Her clothes like

Her skin like

her soul withering.

Like parched earth,

She smiles:

'Why are you afraid?'

As if to say.

'Tell me...'

I could smell her.

What eats her from

Inside leather jacket

Sex in black and white

High heels and platinum

Blond wig orange-colored

Blood; fragile wisp.

She flashes a smile

Full of nicotine and

Winks her eyes coyly.

'Plenty more where

That came from',

As if to say.

I could feel it on me,


Giving; she does that with

A swing of her hips,

A flash of her skirt; the colored

Landscape of her ribcage.

I took --

Later, she tells me,

"I'm an artist."

As if to say,

'I sell my soul for a living'.

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