the working girl's grimoire
26 pgs.
read the electronic version here.
spell
for the wicked
Blessed
be the exes. Sex damp and wasted. Fastened into feathers and plump with
whiskey. The sticky bar back with his twisted fingers. Double fisted archivists
and mad chauffers. Real estate brokers and floaters. The grifter with his busted
spine, a line of stitches sewn up the back of him and stuffed with rags we set
fire to one by one over the city. Everything was burning sometimes, the
building a block over that turned the sky black as a headache. You were
so sick and so lovely when the ashes found you, settling over your dark coat.
Floating over the river. The construction worker had no furniture, so you
fucked on the floor. Harbored windswept spaces in all your cavities. The
vending machine owner who bent you over the couch in his highrise. The city lit
up outside like a circuit board.