The adult book store has always been there, desolately grim on the darkened shadowy edges of town,
as deadened ghost vestiges seek out cheap nightly labor, brushing stale alley debris deep underneath cryptic carpeting, squalled then hidden, Jackie never knew her real daddy, never knew how to handle women too well neither, truth being told, she won't find out, as long as out-of-work patrons keep rolling in off soiled city sidewalks from a dreaded populace thronging in felony fetishes and embarrassing internet browser histories .
On the west side of Market St, ride the blue-line down from center-city 'till you hit 30th, on accurately reckoning in retrospect one rare Thursday morning of select manumission, I jetted A.M.A. from a detox in Chester county, afterward
recalling in clarity briefly crossing an adult theater/ bookstore amalgamation one early October afternoon, ambling casually toward a regional railway station with my ex, how embarrassing the idea of going in there sober was, how miserable it would be, a steady downhill degradation of morality reaching a bleak underground apex of shameful infidelity.
It wasn't until a particular synthetic disposition gravely increased my chances of concurrence, momentarily pausing, I thought the idea acceptable, I mean on entering such a place.
Now, going back a few years to a heartbreaking neighborhood scene, admitting not the slightest bit beatific, a musty carnal aroma enveloped dingy apartment foyers, ripped scattered pages of trivial magazines spread sordidly out along bedroom hardwood tiles, anyways,
On getting what I wanted a few years later, pharmaceutical benevolence from an elderly quack a couple of ethical physicians later, prescribing me anything from death to life to sickness, back up to heaven, then eventually incarceration. We both got nailed, he ended up serving the rest of his life upstate in Massachusetts, isn't it something how the weather changes, fervently, how restlessly discontented a restroom door remains ajar in five dollar theater basements laced in sticky semen tattered carpeting, (penal code 550)
The adult bookstore stands in drab stolid hope of rare amphetamine midnights, its neon vernacular flickering, burnt-out faded dreams of worn cement and blood bleached trousers, on a drunken spree one gritty weekend down by 30th and Market,
( the things I saw that night in Maryann's eyne, her pupils dilated to credit card initiative and decrepit finances, a man stood outside the dissolute house of horror one sallow evening in early April, shouting "free girls".... words piercing my drug-induced ken, I've been thirsty for some time biting off more than I could swallow in toxic routine, it'll all catch up eventually, maybe not tonight but soon enough, the gentleman's club literally denting my decade old denim jeans, what I want is something that will last, in short lived seasons of century old dissipation, not hip to tongues that gather forsaken lingerie in coming freight train mornings of stale counter whiskey vapor, loosening her skirt and grasping the nightclub epicenter, from a south-philly rowhome pedestal out into......................................
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