by on February 5, 2016 :: 0 comments

Rich dudes have their run of the place here,
place where low hills press down in earshot
of falling black water and women so fucking
tired of washing garments, they hang
their breasts out to dry on hooks
chiseled from fine fountain stone. These
are the same women who squeeze your arm
in between their lacquered fingers
and then push your fingers into their lips
and far, far further back, just so
long as your lucre be green-and-gray paper
and not some nasty alloy.

– William C. Blome

editors note:

Love for lucre. How low will you go? To buy? To sell? – mh clay

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