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![Image for the poem street of bad love](/images/uploads/poemimages/200199.jpg?1436964640)
street of bad love
they call her Blyss.
she made her fortune on Hester St., in the clubs & cafés that run up &
down that nefarious boulevard. she flashes her Rita Hayworth smile at a
man; the sparkle in her gypsy eyes nets him, quick & deadly, in the steel
ribbons of her seduction. you are right away shelling out for champagne &
caviar, diamonds & pearls. hell, lease her a summer house in Tuscany,
why not.
after a single night with her, you imagine the most beautiful way to expire
would be to die in her bed, covered in the scarlet bouquet of her kisses.
her naked body is at once too glorious & too sinful to reveal; before the
scene erodes to pornography, the camera pans outside the window, to a
peerless moon.
you ravage her in your dirty fantasies, & even worse, you write poems about
her. but one man is never enough for her, she’s the poster girl for polygamy.
she collects men like links in a chain. when you realize you’re only a trinket
on her cheap bracelet, you cry. you cry like a thing that is no longer a man;
you need to lose yourself.
there’s nowhere to run, but you run anyway, speeding down a killer highway
in your ragtop death machine, no headlights, no brakes. if your lucky, a
brick wall will jump out of the black velvet night & smash you into oblivion.
for the first time in your miserable life, you know beyond reckoning
that there is a God: only a force of such incomprehensible nature
could create a woman like her…
she makes love like a shotgun
with both barrels
(Art by Nico)
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