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Head for the Door

Oral sex and cigarettes,
in threadbare kindled corsets.
Trading laces in a red lit bizarre,
you mend your teddy with rusty wire barbed.
Are your goods morning market fresh?
A barter, for nothing less than flesh.
Primal cut?
Pickled ligaments?
Aged carcass?
And in that moment I am pleased,
you walk through the door.
Then those memories dissipate,
making room for more,
taking in the violence,
and the show,
down to the floor.

(2013)

Other works by James Matthew Coleman...



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