torch song liebestraum
Bogart had Bergman, who would’ve given up her husband &
the fate of the free world to run away with him, in the desert
heat of Casablanca.
a cynical detective with a drinking habit scored the affections
of a high-class lady when he booked her for murder; a lady
a gambler with a permanent scowl tortured the emotions of
a tempestuous redhead, called her a tramp, & still she clung
to him on her knees, staining her expensive gown with her
tears. they called her Gilda.
I could bust outa this film noir vertigo that I’m tangled in,
maybe, if I could make a woman love me like that. sure,
it would be my reprieve from these late night saloons,
spilling old whiskey & scripting cheap romance lyrics on
pretty paper napkins.
she’d look good in little cocktail dresses off the rack, bomber
jackets & combat boots from Army surplus, & even better in
nothing at all. she’d read to me from the letters in Penthouse,
sing sultry French tunes in the shower, & purr when I slapped her.
slither like a snake under the sheets, plant herself just right on
her elbows & knees, having learned from mistakes with her old
boyfriends. I’d have to take my time loving her, & maybe I’d cut
down on my whoring.
but I’d kiss her deep every day & smack her fine ass, tell her
her eyes bothered me as much as I could stand, so she’d know
she was hardcore & beautiful; she’d know she was royal.
she’s the girl I dream in Caravaggio visions, when I’m drunk or
stoned; a regular, common woman, graceful as the sea & wild
as the wind, & she’d need more love than I could ever give her…