Blues for the good manners of vampires

And then here is somebody offering me a million dollars to become a whore.  I take it and become a  poet.  Find out there is no difference    between  words besides who and what wears them and the environment they intend when naked—seduction or truth, or seduction for the sake of truth,  or truth for the sake of seduction.  I take it and become a poem. Pathologically true and etheric residue of a body that’s been sold into this blue sound for profit and feeds it back to the capitalists as prophecy, blues blood for sale. Come out to show them. A whore is just a physical embodiment of all your deflected desire. You pay her to hide you there in wish-fulfillment,  to hold you hostage in her revelation. Poems are that. The opposite of whatever you let draw blood until you’re so anemic you run from what you need for fear of healing, for fear that real touch is more dangerous than all this pretend intimacy. And it is. Take the money. You can only become what you are.