Vanity

- a Bret Easton Ellis poem

My spa consists of cold cream
made from the semen
of Malawi altar boys and ichor
brushed once a day on my teeth.

My mind awash in scotch
(single-malt), I lovingly touch
the oxblood leather chair's arm
while scouring the back page

for prostitutes so desperate
they would not be missed.
I look outside to behold a night kissed
by pearl light.  I reach for the phone...