las mujeres nacen de la tierra en la gloria de la más alta
dys·to·pi·an/disˈtōpēən/adjective: dystopian:
                               relating to or denoting an imagined place
                   or state in which everything is unpleasant or bad,
      typically a totalitarian or environmentally degraded one;
               "the dystopian future of a society bereft of reason"
noun: dystopian;                                plural noun: dystopians:
a person who advocates or describes
an imagined place or state in which
everything is unpleasant or bad;
"a lot of things those dystopians feared did not come true"
[A dystopia from the Greek δυσ- "bad" & τόπος "place";
alternatively, cacotopia, kakotopia],
or simply anti-utopia;      a community or society
that is undesirable or frightening;  It is translated
as "not-good place" &     is an antonym of utopia,
                      a term coined by Sir Thomas More
par·a·dise/ˈperəˌdīs/noun
noun: paradise;                  plural noun: paradises
in some religions; heaven as the ultimate abode of the just,
heaven, the kingdom of heaven, the heavenly kingdom,
Elysium, the Elysian Fields, Valhalla, Avalon;
                                  "the souls in paradise"
the abode of Adam and Eve before the Fall
in the biblical account of Creation;
the Garden of Eden/noun: Paradise, Eden
"Adam and Eve's expulsion from Paradise"
an ideal or idyllic place or State;
"the surrounding countryside is a streetwalker's paradise"
                      Utopia, Shangri-La, heaven, idyll, nirvana;
                                                        ­   "a tropical paradise"
  bliss, heaven, ecstasy, delight, joy,
happiness, nirvana, heaven on earth
                 a ******* who seeks customers on the street    
                                   "this is sheer paradise!"
Middle English:     from Old French paradis,
via ecclesiastical Latin from Greek paradeisos
‘enclosed royal park,’       from Avestan pairidaēza ‘enclosure, park.’
                                                          ­       Superficies terræ puella

Glitz and glamour
Subterranean armed bandits
Streetwalker zombies

Dear Diary, you're completely full of ****. You are that streetwalker who passes by with a faux smile and a greeting that defines Charlatan.

"Hello! How are you?"

Well, Diary, I'm broken and full of rotting organs and a brain just screaming for serotonin and a conscious that wants to shove a knife in your chest and a heart that's too weak to do it.

"I'm doing just fine, thanks."

Charlatan Diary, you're nothing but a shallow waste of ink. Waste of ink waste of ink wasteof ink wa ste o f ink wasteofink.

The darkness can embrace the page a silk sheet of verbal perfection .
Empty streets and   bars cast shadows that cling in mind like some ship long sailed from port.
Why must they see the end and never fight it's truth ?

We find so little compassion a snow storms emotion has left this summer night
vacant as the motels sign.
Drift for a second with me and i'll show you nothing but flawed perfection in return.

Cats in the garbage winos hold court in the parks distant to the .
The child never should know.
Poets speak in smoke filled rooms of nothing more than a broken souls frustration and second
avenue's  false shine a glass charm and a freakshow diamond the ***** a true friend in
times all to often I need.

Whats your sport the streetwalker asks me in such a pure jaded sense.
wash me  pilot hands are clean but thoughts seem to stain walls of the union mission
I love its true sense of decay .

Jack are you still on the road or just lost in big Sur?
Bob can they ever decode the message or just set free in the paint you cast as words?
Poets fools profits and second street saints I feel comfort in madness  for
sanity's annoying plea just takes up my time.

Are we nothing more than junkies?
Slave to page and the veiw's no matter how blind they may be.
A  drunkard  , A clown, And a welcome stranger in many a lost souls view.
Charles I can understand your humor in the utter sense of ***** it all and the crued beauthy i reconize so very well.

And a whiskey laced brother kindred spirts seem to go better with southern bourban to
wash it all down.

Now sweetheart im not saying im any good but im always a goodtime.
We have to be ******* to be anything at all.
They all knew as so do I.

Heros gone were never heros at all.
Im the last of my kind hundred proof deadly with a **** eating grin.
Only through others eyes are we truely seen .
So I ask how's your view?

Admire many only to realize your lost in ego's storm.
Few understand and even less care.
Im always here till im truley gone.

Stay crazy friends and remember it's not to be admired.
For heros always must fall.
A breeze in the summers burning heat like many others.
I'll only leave a soon to be taken vacant seat.

His eyes gleamed and played in his eye sockets, like marbles on a playground. When he spoke, he waved the arms of a worn windbreaker. Dried ***** pooled down the center zipper. This was a man who stopped to compliment my boots and not my face. Or skin. Or purty smile. The wind encircled us and almost pulled the cardboard with a toothy model on both sides out of his dried finger tips. His niece insisted he carry that thing around. If only she had given him an entire billboard instead.

When I saw the gaunt streetwalker, companion of the sunrise, keeper of the bottle--he had enough to live off the recycling from years--he reminded me of the naked frightening people we are when we peel off the fifteen layers of skin, disrobe, and dismantle our pride.

I look up..into an blackening sky
and imagine a wonder as I fly..
gaze upon Cygnus the swan
and think of X-1 residing inside..

A spinning hole of fourteen solar mass
as black as the devils devious ***
enshrined in belts of orange and red
energy stolen from the star that has bled

Into its fierce companions consuming hole
gnawing on the sun like deaths own toll
blasting out jets like an angels glowing trumpet
swallowing stars like a streetwalker strumpet

Its partner a sapphire star seriously suffering
the loss of mass with no way of buffering
its pull into the black holes continual maul
matter tattered like an old beautiful shawl

six light years away from our Earth
as a massive star its original birth
as a super nova mass playing its role
shrank into a carnivorous black hole

X-1 sprawled as a devouring creation
cruising through the Cygnus constellation
event horizon spinning 800 times a second
even as it grasps and continues to beckon

deadly beauty dancing in an obsidian gown
wearing the stars matter as an elegant crown
energy it has stolen and devoured whole
lost forever to the mouth of a black hole

The chaffed red thighs of the streetwalker
And darting yellowed eyes of the nervous talker
Do not meet in this celibate exchange
This strange therapy in a musty room
No thrusting hips or sweaty faces loom
Niether dips down or drips above the other
With weight of body or intent that smothers
No sound of slapping skin
She punches in the clock
Sits, looks, listens
He licks his chewed lips
And in the light they glisten

someone done stole my baby
ran off with her in the night
updated her right out of my life
put her in some hideous makeup
made her a ****
a lowclass streetwalker
I search everywhere
can I get her back?

****** Heels

Streetwalker quickstep
In knee highs
Click clack tap tap
On the fly
Her cacophony echoes
Down the night’s hollow alley
Cat caught by black
Cadillac
Hurry on in
That pimped out coffin
Streetwalker
Quick
Steps.

someone done stole my baby
ran off with her in the night
updated her right out of my life
put her in some hideous makeup
made her a ****
a lowclass streetwalker
I search everywhere
can I get her back?

Up with the sun, his mind razor-keen,
he hikes up his trousers and starts his machine.
Though barrels of funk feed their reek to the dawn,
he pays them no heed; the trashman rolls on.
Up alleys, down thruways, past storefronts and stands,
he guides his behemoth with rock-steady hands.
Though big rigs and small fry speed hither and yon,
he sticks to his creed; the trashman rolls on.
Down **** to Impostor, past each stinking bin,
he makes for the junkies and merchants of sin.
Though winos raise eyelids, though punks point and grin,
he straightens his shoulders and thrusts forth his chin.
******* and derelicts lurch from their sties.
Pimps and their harlots flash Jacksons and strut.
“Hey, you in the truck,” a pickpocket cries,
“What are you, buddy, some kinda nut?”
With hands on the levers, and brightly lit eyes,
The big driver leans out and coolly replies:
“No, sir. I’m the trashman.”
And down comes the fork, and up goes the muck.
The gears maul the lowlifes, the fork rocks the truck.
Though hollers and screams shake his steel mastodon,
he longs to proceed; the trashman rolls on.
The truck passes perverts, creeps churned in its bile,
up Felon to Pusher, down Vicious to Vile,
where block upon block, where mile upon mile,
the hookers regale him with smile upon smile.
Near-naked floozies exhibit their wares.
But this man just glares while they trumpet in pique.
“Hey, you in the truck,” a drunk strumpet cries,
“What are you, mister, some kinda freak?”
His hands on the levers, with brightly lit eyes,
the big driver leans out and gently replies:
“No, ma’am. I’m the trashman.”
And down comes the fork, and up goes the slime.
The gears maul the contents to streetwalker chyme.
Though hollers and screams are distressing and drawn,
his heart fails to bleed; the trashman rolls on.
Pining for virtue, he clatters along,
up Bully to Bigot, down Trollop to Spawn,
past Conman and Cutthroat to Thirteenth and Greed.
He steadies, caresses, and readies his steed. Virtue, indeed.
The trashman rolls on.



Okay. NOW CUT AND PASTE THE LINK BELOW TO READ HERO, A SPRAWLING, GROUNDBREAKING FANTASY FOR GROWNUPS IN TWO PARTS. (BUT YOU MUST CLICK ON THE PROVIDED LINK AT THE CONCLUSION OF PART ONE TO ACCESS PART TWO! THAT’S WHERE THIS TALE’S AMAZING RESOLUTION LIES. But please...intelligent, soulful readers only!)
NOW HERE’S THAT LINK:

https://allpoetry.com/poem/14922744-Hero---Part-One-by-Ron-Sanders


Copyright 2020 by Ron Sanders.

contact:
ronsandersartofprose@yahoo.com

Streetwalker quickstep
In knee highs
Click clack tap tap
On the fly
Her cacophony echoes
Down the night’s hollow alley
Cat caught by black
Cadillac
Hurry on in
That pimped out coffin
Streetwalker
Quick
Steps.

The femme                          fatale was a common
figure                               in the European
     Middle Ages,
                               often portraying              the dangers of unbridled
female lust.                                           The pre-medieval
inherited             |                                  Biblical figure of Eve
offers an           example of a
     ravenous              nymphomaniac,
                    as does the wicked, ****               ******* streetwalker;
seductive enchantress   or $1000@hr escort  |
                           typified  in Morgan le Fay;
The Queen             of the Night in Mozart's
The Magic    
       Flute shows                        her more muted  
       [***, magic,   Eros, pederasty, ******, &c.]
presence  during the;  [My Fair Lady, Cinderella,
                Sleeping Beauty: ****** the
                ******* then marrying her,
                         then      stoning her to death               in the yard
                         so u                can     marry her
    twin little sisters;                                                in the          Age                          
   of Enlightenment

that old devil came through the window while
I was thinking about her; ****** thing
landed on my shoulder weighing a ton of musical
tones: I get how Poe did it high on hallucinogens
banging his 13yo wife literally to death;
sadder than sad Novalis' child bride died
before reaching puberty & he later
died a tragic male ****** greatest poet heir
given to walking the street & hanging
out beside his wife's monument in the graveyard
where he was found dead one day w/ an unfinished Paean
& wet quill pen in his hands, India ink knocked
over spilled at his side; Suzie the streetwalker even
w/ dry quill would've given him a tumble
but he made her feel old when he screamed
at her matted gray ***** hair;
Kant hollering out his window
rock on, jeepster, let's get high w/ Jesus Christ
never came to America; Mormons smoke
the *** they find growing in the yards
after mushrooms cropped up all through
the southern state & were eaten
by the noble darkies & created rock and roll;
anyone who ate the brown caps
filling the former plantations in buckets
got the soul sound down pat like they were born
to boogie; it's been drugs to spur this nation
on since hemp led to hash & ***** & *******
& marijuana & pills & **** & crack
& oxy; man, how do u stand having a drug addict
for a spouse; don't know why there's no sun up
in the sky; get a ******* clue, my brother, tis I