my body hangs
nailed to the wall
painted with the nasty habit
of acting like a woman
exposing
the soft underside of my breasts
surrounding
a naïve heart
now comes the vagrant critic
to deny i am art
holding his martini glass
a manhattan mixed
with too much vermouth
half a fag smoked
returned to the ashen pocket
of his rumpled suit
because con men take nothing
for granted
sweat stains on his fedora
smelling of musty truths
his every gesture a hustle
as he points out
my ornate dysfunction
i inform him
there are other galleries in the city
besides this one
other temples to desecrate
with bile and piss
he needn’t keep returning to mine each night
responding to my words
in fits of angry bluster
he takes on the look of an old whore
in a frilly rotten homecoming gown
light on estrogen
heavy on the lipstick
who never got over
what was lost in the war
One reply on “nailed to the wall”
Reblogged this on House of Words.