As he crashed away from a harlot’s womb
At seven-years-old he was made to taste
The dark fur beneath damp powder and lace
And change the sheets of whores from every room,
Then cry hungry inside a city’s gloom.
Grandmother is the only one to face
For the junkie status that slowed his pace.
Will the tombstone message be carved to soon?
He mixed on last shot of poisonous rain.
I can still hear the demons laugh and moan…
His pleading eyes faded away from me.
My childish heart died in my daddy’s groan…
Final orgasms exploded the vein
On a haunting face of black memory.
Shawn R. Jones
Reprinted from Womb Rain
Finishing Line Press, 2008