deepundergroundpoetry.com
sepia nights
when a man’s got a thousand sordid tales in his archive,
the nights don’t have to be a blank page in a journal.
a moody poem is just a drift away.
I can fall back to those days when I was a jacked-up
teenager, before the Army took me, scoring prom
princesses in the back of my old man’s Ford Fairlane.
he woulda beat me with a cro-bar if he knew.
maybe the Army was the escape I needed. they sent me to
distant shores, hot & spicy. in between dawn patrols &
guard duty, I made time in run-down bars & fancy clubs,
where the hookers seduced me in foreign tongues. I didn’t
need no translator, either, because ‘f*ck’ is the same in
every language. Soldier Blue, that was me.
after my discharge, my wicked habits continued; sex is
something you never get enough of. I was a nightcrawler,
on the prowl for the naked flesh of a woman. chasing angels
& suicide blondes. they were fast & loose & they knew how
to be bad. even the angels.
sometimes the hunt was good. when it wasn’t, the payoff
was a drunken, lonely night.
these days I’m kinda reclusive. the dames & dolls are still
around, just not so close where I can put my hands on them.
best I can do is think about them thinking about me when
they’re not supposed to.
we make love in our hearts, I guess;
it’s more poetic that way…
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