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Image for the poem bullets never get lonely

bullets never get lonely



sometimes my brain takes off in a 40’s black&white direction

yeah, Bogart tough-&-cool
sittin’ at his splintered desk with his fedora
pushed back, tie loose, and then:
“she walked into my office on a pair o’ legs
that could burn down Hitler’s heart.”

beat up from the grime & the crime on the streets.
pursued between jobs by a scandalous muse; he
holsters his Beretta & picks up a ball point, to deal
in hard-boiled poetics. conjures up an ode to love,
his beautiful, heartless mistress, written on the back
of an unpaid bill…

nights full of danger & deception, whether tracking a
wayward wife, or exchanging noir dialogue with a
seductive but lethal blonde, who tries to con him with
those Bette Davis eyes.

hours that stretch long & boring, followed by blood-
pumping moments of gunfire, brilliant flashes breaking
the absolute dark. with or without the symphonics:
Mozart in riot gear. heartbeats like jungle drums, until a
man screams…..& dies.

sometimes the moon offers a brief vindication: soft music
& a doll to kiss away the heartbreak.
maybe the dame with the legs…



Written by JohnFeddeler
Published
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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