Shame, shame & a lousy nickname

So it goes. Sitting in wetness.
Five minutes, the second hand
is a pigskin whip, flicking
the same raw spot. In the room
women come and go, talking of
something that is not
the angry mouth between my legs.
Tomorrow, in an attempt
to stay sober, I will pay a man
to stab me with ink to the tune
of cumslut, banners
of fuckmywhoreass on starboard
and fuckmywhorepussy on port grazing
my hips like cherub scarves,
slivers of modesty. And for a while,
it’ll work. Surely eighty times
a second by steel could outdo
any blood-drunk ramrod.
But the bruising pales. Over days
it always does, and it'll be me again
and my tyrant cunt,
hungry as the devil, and now
with instructions.