Things that are only real for me as an eighteen year-old-girl naked on the edge of a typewriter

Under
Papersacks shuffle
Getting high with
thunder
The logy wastrel
Lights me cigarettes over and over
Wandering about the unseen
A friend of him
How he used to drive cars as James Dean
As he pours some hootch
On a little plastic cup
Sipping all in one gulp
And drive tomatoes
To nasty pulp
With his frowzy fingernails
Until some other wastrels
Start singing in their balconies
Exhaling smoke through their noses
With fancy prostitutes sat on their knees
Filthy wound cigarettes
Launched to our feet
And get crazy
While masturbating those hookers
And singing odd tunes
Whistling
Covered by the dark shapes of old dunes
Jouncing their big heads

Front
                      Back
Being bitten
On his thick neck
And the wastrel next to me
His old blue eyes are shining
He’s drunk
and I understand
he is a worshipper
mostly because of himself
and I lean close
lounging my head on his shoulder
You’re an artist, I tell him
while the city is in molder
We stand there
Drinking and smoking
Until we throw it all up
And start back again
In the middle of irreversible seeks
He says, and you’re the finest listener
I’ve ever found on these streets