I had a dream last night that I looked into a mirror and my hair was bleached out, my face wace was mess. I was in torn up sequins and stilletto heels, and it took me a minute to realize I was a hooker. I've never woken up feeling sadder.

BOWING SPINE

This emptiness is whole;
complete and fullfilling heart drilling.
I taste your hard fingers
and you trace my bowing spine
acid rain conjured
into blood red wine
beating at the window panes
to get to our inviting veins
pumping out the loneliness
of a thousand
mistaken
generations.
We are ascetic existentialists
for penitent experts
and disillusioned gurus
seeking out some loyalty
not yet labelled ignorant tenacity
trusting in nothing
but God's sadistic sense of humour
gnawing on our cultivated tumors
and inventing sweetly incongruent rumours
for your hard fingers
and my bowing spine.