She's like a fruit stall
has it all laid out
I can **** her
or ****** she says,
this place stinks
of bars and latrines
and unmade beds
and unwashed bodies
but we embrace anyway
and kiss what it is
hard to see,
frutta giovane
ragazza ****
she opens up to me
and I to her
and it is fun
and we dish up dirt
on those who
dish up dirt on us
and it is cool
and we laugh
have *** and bath,
how dark the place seems
a distant echo
of cries and screams
like one does sometimes
in dreams but here
is no dream or if so
a nightmare kind
and we see
nothing much
as if blind,
we lay in the afternoon sun
drink ***** and smoke
and joke and have ***
again again
then lay back
let dry the sour juices,
no light
no love
no warmth
no hands touching
or body seeking
just that far away echo
of what might have been
had we known
or knowing seen.