shorehouse jazz session 1

marlow
lady basco

@ work on the back of a time card
always fighting time, for what?
who told me fighting was to be done by taking orders?
from the gourding adorers of eating disorders
affording the company of long legs and short skirts
the last ditch
effort-
*last call
but it's never the last call
there's another and another
from voicemail to text box
looking for finality
-closure
but there is always more
like we close our checks
the closure
a hex/ a curse
like the coins in a purse-
what's worse?
the hours we work
or the pay with no perks?
your face, another customer
this place-
you're so fucking amatuer
as you fondle her
you look over her hair
a ravenous stare- at some other fair
or fare-
devil may care
a better whore for less ware
and so pretty she wears pink on her lips
with your eyes undressing her hips
but holding that one in front of you
never satisfied, never enough
no one is, the one
pink always looks better than blue
or yellow like the cab- after she picks up the tab
and you follow her out- her curly tail and snout
last call- she was pink
and now in the light- you think...
what's that phone number about
how does she twirl when i lick her in that spot
what would she do if i tugged a little longer
what eyes will she have for me in the morning
storming-
and what's with the business card
a pink shiny lip glossed
tub of lard
from the fryer
we rehire- then fire
then recount the retired
french fried- untied
then sun dried
24 hours- and then back again
here comes dank deville with that slimy grin
i want to pour ranch down your advice
shut my eyes on you
have to realize something better than this burger and fries
you want me to suck your dick
while i'm serving your mozzarella sticks
but that's not my gig
so stop trying to dig
cause your shovel is broke
and your game is a joke
so please let me smoke
alone
or in quiet
because i closed the doors to lock out the bores
to even the scores
not to open my sores
and even if i were opening them
the invite is not yours
and this ain't a titty bar
and those ain't the keys to your car
so find that girl with the business card
i'm sure you guys will go far
and her pink shiny lips
will match your 10 percent tips
and as your front side unzips
you can think of the clink of the glass- the crash of the
plates the drinking of this ink
got you on the brink of this running sink
but this ain't your sunday mass
and you can't throw us out like trash
or as the door hits your ass on the way out
of my life
my face
my issues
my space
sick of this chase
i'm riding on the bass of your voice
that night we made the choice
to love
to let you in- not knowing the
that you would surround yourself
with a safety net that would not hold you
soon it will break
with the weight of our hate