Dreams of Life

Drinking in the taverns
Talking with the slatterns
Asking what they’d dreamt of being

I wanted to be a dancer, one said
But not in bed
She laughed

I wanted to be an author, said the next
Buried deep in text
Telling the stories that need it… gimme another one, will you Joe?

The third left with a john
A sweaty little Don
Before I could ask

the fourth cried… I wanted to be a housewife
That’s the life
One man, no cares

One said, with an uncertain smile, how the hell am I supposed to know
That’s all so long ago
Le’me be

twenty for a ‘job, fifty for a bang, and if you want my backside it’ll cost you a hunerd
Said the sixth, and I wondered
If she’d even heard what I’d asked

I wanted to be a whore, said the last
No future, no past
And here I am, living my dream

Authors are Whores

Those damned authors are at it again…

Shall I explain that statement? Authors allow themselves to be fucked by words. They also encourage words to copulate, and they’ll do anything to make the reader cum (intellectually, of course, har har). God help the women and men who live with authors. They daren’t believe a word they hear.