That Beautiful Homeless Junky has a Bright Bright Future as a Sad Sad Writer: a poem by Jon Vreeland
It probably started as a teenager, right after she got pregnant at 15.
Now I see her plodding the streets
Always alone Arms sliced Black polka-dots wrapped like a dying serpent around her flesh-eaten limbs.
(She doesn’t dig in trash but that’s what people tend to call her. But her long black hair Her mile long eye lashes tells us she was once beautiful not only on the inside but the outside too)
And with those fresh railroad tracks and soars on her face
She charges a blowjob a shot while her man serves time
A cheap lover with no more love to
just a loaded gun that shoots water turned a sludgy brown as her eyelashes flutter, hang halfway from the cracked windows which will never be repaired.
And all I can say is, as I look at this beautiful disaster:
“That beautiful homeless Junky has a bright bright future, as a sad sad writer.”