Two Poems



Sometimes the poem wants a confession

and it’s like a velvet backdrop

for throwing a stiff drink

into someone’s lap

If your hedonism makes you feel like a poet

then maybe you are doing it right

making money is like tarnishing a diamond

it’s like a beautiful funeral wardrobe

as whores and freaks we know

the heart of supremacy

the landscape in which attention is money

and money and attention are given

in order of social position

If there’s anything more hedonistic

than a poem

I’ve yet to feel it

like the view through a satin peephole

like a bath too good to drain

there is a VIP section of the poem

the poem turns on “available now” in their settings

the poem is available now…

It is said that wearing masks contributes to crime

but this poem is a darling of crime

and has only one mask

the poem is called to the “celebrity stage”

but there’s not even a tip rail…

A poem for those of us who find ourselves distantly thinking

just a little longer

just a little bit more

as if soon it will all be over

only to realize it won’t


When I talk about being a whore

it’s like… all right...

the curtains waft and the neo-noir

chamber strings drift into space

At a party, a dominatrix is saying

she was doing a full toilet session

when she caught her reflection

looking like a goddess, she said,


in the mirror

over a client’s face

to shit

knees spread

hair tumbling

like water

from a five star spa

shitting in goddess position

Sometimes I wish I could find the metaphysics in pussy

lift the veil and discover

the world’s origin

In the orchestral score of my life

nothing feels out of place

pussy pays the bills

pussy keeps the lights on

but anyone who thinks sex

is something inherently precious

is not your friend

Sometimes I have to get extremely drunk

but it isn’t like

poor me,

in a strapless sequin dress

it’s just these people are all too stupid

to have all this money

Men tell me I’m beautiful

more for themselves than me

to remind themselves, as consumers,

they’ve made the right choice

the more beautiful I become

the less they say it

Going back over the bridge

two dicks

touching back to back

sometimes it’s like

I’m raping myself! we laugh

In designer sunglasses

I fall asleep

without dreaming


without thinking

I’m writing a musical

a cabaret, a dazzling affair!

where all the whores murder their clients

I star in each role

practicing hundreds of thousands of hours

blood dripping from my mouth as I dance my routine

and at the moment of the final blow

the animals come out of their woodwork

to celebrate

so at last:

the rich may know:

there was no dignity in living anyway

What a joyride

bunnies gather

birds land on my shoulder

the curtains close

and I never realized a single one of them

never thought of a dick in my mouth

as anything

but an interval

my pussy as nothing

but a vortex

and if I’ve suffered

I surely never felt it

Rachel Rabbit White (
@rabbitwhite) is a writer and performer doing the devil's work in New York City. She pens a weekly column at Garage/Vice about sex scenes in art, literature and film.