falafel truck

hey, baby, hey, baby, hey, baby.

he leans, leering, oveer the wares on his cart, forcing himself into my line of vision, eyes perusing my every angle, glinting hungrily above his suggestive smirk.

fuck you, sir, for raping me on the street. fuck you, sir, for dicomfiting me in my own skin, thrusting your mind into my pants, your xray eyes through my shirt. fuck you, sir, for your needy, virtual hands.



besides the sidewalk sexualization, i am distressed because i know this lurks also in him, that what the turbaned one articulated would never escape from his mouth, but would hover instead subversively just below his lips, tongue, teeth and penetrate every one of them through his quai-transcendent, denying gaze.