jerome moore

Call girls have the loneliest of times at christmas

Holly sleeps until 5pm when it has already began to darken.
Shaves her legs into the toilet, checks the blade for rust.
Keeps a flask of gin in her zebra stripe stockings for cold gods.
Before she showers she shits and reads an old newspaper
with a photograph of her from years back, wrapped in ermine furs and lit up like a chandelier.
A guest of a famous Spaniard film directors premier. She remembers when the carriage turned into a gourd and the tiny town was all an icy model inside a snow globe. She stares down at the bathroom rug and flushes the toilet.

She head out to the icy streets of loneliness.

Submitted: Friday, January 18, 2013
Edited: Friday, January 18, 2013

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