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Copyright Seeing it First Hand 2024 | Theme by ThemeinProgress
The brothel was cold,
but inviting
and the numbness of her panting,
surreal.
Unhappiness and self-pity.
And then asleep,
her snoring pleasurable,
gentle in the murky slumber.
Foul smells emanate
from under the kitchen door,
no whisky on the night-table,
and then the market fires go out.
Written by Jack Brewis
