poetry

Shopaholic

I go window shopping,
but it’s for flesh,
with a drunken belly
and an equally drunken
friend.

I go to the top floor,
(the best whores
are always there)
then make my way
to ground zero.

He tells me –
“When we knock,
we needn’t even say
“Hello””,

“It’s but a shake
or a nod”.

And I imagine life this way –
my livelihood
based upon head movements
of men.

Now,
they’ll charge me $480
for two showers
a blowjob
and sex.

And I’m watching, as
my greatest pleasure and most
inflaming passion
is sold
for a pittance.

And so,
I bid my friend adieu
and flee to my bar
and gin tonics.

At least I don’t need to pay
for those.

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One thought on “Shopaholic

  1. Pingback: Shopaholic – island towards which we swim

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