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a poem by Aleathia Drehmer (1 of 2)

Walter Richard Sickert:
La Hollandaise, 1906

I have paid for this, for her,
for the moonlight on that
misshapen dirty breast
whose flesh has passed
through many a man's mouth.

Her hair disheveled now
after I've taken another
piece of dignity from her
broad thigh, the naked welts
from my fingers still fresh --
obliterating previous DNA
left by strangers, of which
I have become one.

She is a crime scene,
every inch of her evidence
to my criminal lust,
every cell a witness
to my hypocrisy.

© by Aleathia Drehmer
Gutter Eloquence Magazine ~ Issue #23 ~ Sept 2012    next poem