To soak up the dirt is to soak up the stories. My story is grime pushed into the cracks in the concrete From all the crusty hobos and sweat-sheened showgirls. My story is glitter from all the strippers and their grinning patrons, and *****, spilled liquor, and ***** from those who have sought a cure. I am nourished by pain, and also rubber from the wheels of souped-up sports cars Driven by men with chasmic souls. The oil from a billion french fries Palliates the sting of alcohol upon my fractured, ***** skin. The filth of the cigarettes and of the **** smoke, Dank in the air, and heavy, slathers on another coat. I see all things and I hear all things and I know all things.
I can see up your skirt right now, you precious little object, As you flee the casino like a gull from a sharkβs open jaws. Your nightmare is right behind you, and heβs starving. His humanity has been chewed up by the worms of his rancor, And all that remains is an animal with hot blood on his brain. In the alleyway I hear the pop and crack as stiletto gives way to concrete And bone gives way to undue stress. His smile is unhinged as Stifled screams and muffled gunshot atomize in the black air.
A decade later, the mops of sad janitors cut through like razors, Making clean spots more unsightly than the ocean of grunge. Surreptitious blood spatters, long since scrubbed Still glint under blacklight. The chalk outlines have absorbed Into my unholy black skin, and though I was drunk on your blood, I still remember cradling you as you died.