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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
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