Ken Trimble # 17 Living on Van Gogh Street

It was not Carthage,
it was St. Kilda
and I discovered her
steamy sinks and fleshy songs.

Augustine, oh Augustine
I too wanted not too much
perfection too soon.

The street was like no other
with its nuns and night girls
in their fishnet stockings.

The street had its gone to
God types looking to score
under the statue of Mary.

There were all sorts of characters
like ten cent Paul hitting unsuspecting
passerby's with his Shakespearean
voice,

got ten cents, knowing full well he'd
get a dollar, reverse psychology
works every time.

After the church was the John Lennon
Inn a place more suited to an
abattoir.

Like the man said, make me chaste,
but not just yet