Manifesto

No one talks disparagingly of the appetites of men—

scruffy faced

greased hair slicked back,

cigarettes, booze, and women.

Instead,

they fantasize about the poet’s lifestyle—

nicotine stained fingers

tapping out each letter of the verse

hunt-and-peck style,

like kisses from hookers

lingering from the night before.

 

What am I to do?

My own appetites go unanswered—

the word gigolo repulsive from the get go—

there is no beauty

in emerging  from the sheets,

hair disheveled, lipstick smeared.

I drink old coffee left in a cup,

dressed in my slip—

hammer out my latest manifesto,

can my inspiration be any less brilliant?

“Pour me a whisky,

make some eggs and get out,

I have work to do,” my voice gruff.

Labeled a cold whore for such behavior—

it doesn’t matter.

I light a cigarette

from the embers of the previous one—

chain smoking,

hoping the syllables will follow suit

allowing me to meet my quota for the day.

Butter and eggs fill the air, fresh coffee.

I can still smell the sex hanging in the room

like stale cologne;

there’s no reason for him to stay.

I remain focused on my blank page

waiting for it cum.

2016 copyright by Katie Pifer http://www.witchpetals.wordpress.com

wr2

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