Mercato

The women were swarming and buzzing,
Twitching their wings and rubbing their hands over
Mesh lingerie and salted cadavers
Splayed and sleeping sound on dirty ice
And boy was I a mess with fountains for eyes
And sticky little mouths licking fingers,
Big brown eyes widening at the likes of me, they’d never seen
Mama siete americani?
But those made me think of his eyes,
The color of soil, always kind of smoldering with some intrinsic cruelty
And if they did look at me,
And no matter how I move my ugly limbs they don’t,
They’d grill my body like meat,
But not tender enough to pass his royal lips
And
He avoids my stare and licks his
Crooked teeth

Small brown eyes narrowing at the likes of me, he’d rather never seen
And I dream,
Having seen his pink gate with white clothes hanged,
Of what runs through his wicked mind
His wicked hands
The meat he’ll eat or cook or beat
And nothing really tells me what he sees,
If anything,
Through the stained glass of that white car I hate so much
Knowing I’m the talk of the town
Bella americana
Bella americana
Bella sesso americana
Crossing their meaty fingers I’m the american puttana

In that same dirty place, though,
Between cadavers and insects,
Trading money for things we more or less don’t need,
Something there reminded me and wouldn’t leave
And that dirty little devil on my sleeve was quite convincing
In the letters I’d written him, he’d use me for something, if I’m lucky, at least
Straightened me out about as good as his teeth
I’d much rather sleep

And I can escape some of the ugliest things.

From Boys
From cadavers
From his crooked teeth
But when I’m all alone, I can’t escape from me.

Wow. I love it.