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Heidi slings to roost broiling shadows and drinks the gloom of the room.
Through a fissure of chiseled smoke as she burls you to and fro,
A bell marks time.

In her convoluted rhymes, life’s prostitution and crimes are not your fault.
Well, you left and they might be broke but it’s not like you cut their throats,
One size fits all.

So come on in.

All frosts grow clear here beside the piss-pot of God.
To that rotting flesh sound, get out of that cloud!
And please stop fooling around.

With Heidi’s breasts of fiscal ice, and those eyes that smile like lice who would want more?
Well her milk is on the table, the spoon a melba toast ladle,
Ain’t built to last.

With no attempt to leave and only sick on my sleeve – it’s my fixture. My stain.
And with this picture and paper - my whore and my Saviour,
Why would I want more?

Brimstone novels of Grub Street, from the paper at my feet. You’re coming with me!
So leave your bones on the boat, without a heart you won’t float,
Woe? A necessity.
© 2007 andrew plummer
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