A Frank Word
In honor of Julie Bulette, Pearl Star, Annie Rogers, and the many other sex workers of the American Old West
Call me the lady who falls, for Don John,
Head between heels: the candelabra's red
splurge of sweet fires against the night, like dawn
bidding the light gush forth from the clocktower's head.
In terror of god, your girl and your halfwise body
You bought a performance in both word and deed
With daddy's cash. You can call me a Desperada.
Not desperate. I wasn't the one in need.
Now you hope for a pimp to save me from. Small wonder
When on my knees I saw, past that warm front,
Fierce thunderheads conspiring, and raw tundra
Freezing your cock hard till it called me cunt,
Too cruel to taste true Annabelle Erato.
Whilst, nestled in heads of plain unsimple men
Lies a strength to open gates, to ascend again
The tower of myth I Babelled from their shadow.
So desire me, if you must, and try again
My ancient wifestyle, business of any city
Where twilight still brings on the hour of Men
Or go, kid. See this gun? Now, stuff your pity.