The Trade

by Aidan Andrew Dun

tt4


They seem
erotic at remote
points of cities
eyelined in bitumen
darkest eyeshadow;
they are fine
figures from
a distance
till they are seen
with torn faces
nearer.

They are
magnificent animals
of lewdness
roaming obscure
backtowns
and ghettos;
they are leather
aphrodisiac impressions
strutting anaemic
streetlight
of corners.

Then you see
potholes
eye-sockets
leaking black
discharge of sadness
deeply marking
a deathshead
with trackways
from eyes that
hardly exist:
the trade!

O, they are
excellent silhouettes
the head perhaps
with sky-pointing
blonde fountains
offering demented
customers a handhold
someone avenging
a broken marriage
tonight.

O, they are
powerful predators
of sensuality
role-reversing
omnivores
man-hunters.
Then you see
mainline tracks
all red along
the inside arm:
O my daughters!

They are
fine figures
from a distance
where the first
glance tells a lie;
then you see
the poor face
closer, broken
whore on a
black raining
night.



tt5





Advertisements