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MARILYN POSES ON RED SATIN
1.
never supposes
when she could
have been past
60 someone will
pay more than
she's ever earned
for the pout of
her lips, the
way blood color
reflects on to
her nipples.
She's cold and
wishes there was
a different way
to make a buck,
but at least it
is acting, pre-
tending, spread
eagle, a bore,
no, a nightmare.
The satin feels
like the inside
of a mouth. She
could be a sliver
of melon sliding
thru, knowing
there is only
one way she
will get out.
2.
she's heard it
will make her
tits more red,
leans back
tries to imagine
this, isn't
happy, like some-
one under someone
they'd never choose
who is pumping
away. She hears
a train whistle,
quietly hums a
few leaving blues,
has to pee but
doesn't. The
slick cloth is
cold as a strange
tongue wedged
deep inside her.
Blue would have
been more her,
but "red," the
photographer
whistled, "would
touch men's
blood, make them
want to charge."
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