a friend
of mine
wrote a poem once
about the whores
that find him
and pill freaks
that knock on
his door
he doesn't know
i consider him
a friend
in fact he's dead
now
and i'm
sure
if he and
i had the unfortunate
grace of
living in
the same period
of time
he would
tell me
to fuck off
or go screw
possibly
i would make
it into
one of his stories
as one of
the people that
scared him the most
not in that
scared crazy kind
of way
but in
the way that
he wouldn't like
who i am
because i fear life
and that
would scare him
he wrote
of these pill freaks
and prostitutes
in a poem once
and how he
was
waiting for a good
woman, and how
his friends would
always tell him
it would do him good
if he could read
from his
grave
i would give him
the grace
of letting him
know
i've had
the good ones,
i've had
what amounts to them
all,
they are all the same anyway
and i would tell
him that he didn't
miss much,
staring at them petting
a cat,
and combing
thier hair,
or doing
the dishes
while they
whistle to
a nice pretty song
on the radio
i would tell him
he did it right
he wouldn't believe me
but i would tell him
of all the whores, and
prostitutes
and pill freaks
and (my own)
they all
wore me out
in ways
the good ones
left me
empty.
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