Naked whores and bleach blonde suits of Market Street sip and sob of perverse times,

Times of change of penny loafers, pregnant bellies and swollen breast,

Mid-drift skirts hail the cabs of incense burning turban drab

Suites for suits and tattered skirts beds upon they sit and grin

Torn dollars. Twenty. Thirty lie above khaki pants and tears of sin that soak their shirts.

Drapes of purple polyester wave with chill and solace light,

Yellow walls and pompous art of splattered paint and cigarette smoke,

Where sheets throw themselves on vinyl chairs and plastic wood

Simple passion lust and love borrowed time with shameless pity.

Across the streets by two towers down one floor and threw the door an angel softly speaking

Speaks of pain and scattered dreams, weighty men and worn jackets

Weeping, praying, sinning, tears of torrents tumble satin pillows

Her fingers circle briefly brushing, brazenly passing beneath one another

Echo’s ringing, ranting through white halls, piercing, panting, while cerebral thoughts clash and clang

Blood red fuel pours and puddles his body shaking burning bleeding

Flames of venom flames of beauty flames of…

Fingers dance around cold steel pulsing pleading while silver slices somber air

Hearts and eyes flood and follow turn black shadows turning hollow.

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