Jazz Music poetry Short Stories Uncategorized Urban Legends

nailed to the wall

my body hangs
nailed to the wall

painted with the nasty habit
of acting like a woman

the soft underside of my breasts
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

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