Back to Shane Allison's Artist PageTo the Artist's Page                  Back to the Unlikely Stories home pageTo our home page
GregTo Shane Allison's previous piece     Tearoom PoemTo Shane Allison's next piece


He whispers sexual favors in a hustler's ear
while digging for unfiltered cigarettes.
He accepts twenty bucks from a Friday night lover.
The tips of sugar daddy tongues

lick the pierced belly button
of a washboard stomach.

Cigarette ashes are dead
like electrocuted insects at untied shoelaces
of dirty Reeboks.

Men hustle for yellow-haired asses,

for a back seat blow-job and lines of cocaine
on a sun cracked dash board
pick pockets bone clean for eight-inch thick wallets.

The federal faces of Benjamin Franklin
are tucked in beige bras

between prosthetic titties of

Transsexual whores in red-hot wigs who
spit profanity like pits from prunes.

Stiletto heels are pressed
against plaid shirts stained

with gravy from a truck
driver who lies drunk,

slumped in a pool
of puke in the parking-lot

of Motel El Comino.

To the top of this pageTo the top of this page