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All the Pretty Shit

Continental Divide

Amsterdam

Pearl in an Oyster

LES Morning Twilight

Mata Hari

Fuck You and Your Pale Shades of Blue

The Rat

Naked

Gwen

Sitting at the
Bar at KGB #13

Sitting at the
Bar at KGB #32

Amsterdam

Every Sunday Morning 
I prayed for her
And every Saturday night 
I paid for her

She stood in a doorway on Delancey
Sucking on her cigarette
A cadaver fresh from the limousine 
Neon light reflection
Glistening off her tantric skin

She wore sticky red lipstick
And a trench coat
Stained with a decade of discharge
Black garters
Wrapped around her thighs
Tight enough
To get you high

"What's your name?" 
I asked her
"Amsterdam," she said
While stuffing a roll of twenties
Into her black lace bra

She asked what I was looking for
And before I could lie
She runs
The tip of her tongue 
Along the edge of my ear
And drags a red finger nail
Along my whore rising
Retarding my will
To change your mind

Then hitching her boot heels 
Deep into her spine
She'll rides me
With all the precision 
And the panic
Of a cocaine fire drill

Where there's smoke- there's a liar

She'll tell you
You can have her
For a dollar thirty five

And then she'll tell you
You can have her
For a dollar thirty five

And then she'll tell you
You can have her
For a dollar thirty five
 
But you can't own Amsterdam
For a dollar thirty five

She leaves you alone
With a hungry itch
The promise of her flesh
Out of reach
No control of your cash
To bribe the scratch

You leave her
With a wet rain coat
On you back
After watching your ejaculation
Falling short of the horizon

You want to tell her you love her
But she exist stage right
Clad in dirty black lingerie
Leaving a graffiti satin 
On your balls
Written in mascara lies

I see her every now and then
From the other side of the street
She still calls to me
Now and then
But her dial tone
Is out of style