deepundergroundpoetry.com
the last bullet
Dames: to love them is to hurt them.
the philosophy of solitude takes its toll on a man. sometimes
I get so deep in the alone-ness that I pull out my old Colt
revolver & a single round, the last bullet from my Army
days. I load it in the chamber & spin the cylinder. sit back,
breathe slow & easy. squeeze the trigger…
if it doesn’t connect, I clean up & go out stalking for a woman.
one night I wandered into a decrepit joint on the old east side.
there was a group of musicians & singers, refugees from the
Balkans. they played concertinas & mandolins, a bruised violin
that still held sweetness in its throat.
I picked my target: a mildly attractive lady whose solitary
anguish blinked like a short-circuited motel sign; the word
lonely twisted into a flickering neon tube. a few gentle words, &
she offered me a chair. we spoke of distant summers & drank
sangria made from the dark juices of fruits harvested in a
tangled, long-abandoned garden of Eden.
so the hours passed & it was too late to go home alone. in her
shadowed room, my hands were on her quick & she didn’t
resist. we hit the sheets fast & furious. it turned out that she
liked it rough. she took it on her hands & knees, in the back
door. unlubricated, so it was devastating. she wanted that
torture, to know that no one else could hurt her as much as
she hurt herself.
I gave her all she could handle for a while, but after a couple
months I’d had it. see, I get restless, so I figure to hurt her good
before I leave. you’re a ragdoll, I tell her, you’re used up. there
are so many lonely women out there waiting to be abused, & I
need that thrill. be a big girl & dry your eyes, baby.
her seductively curved body gets kinda hard; her eyes are
practically elliptical, like a snake when it’s ready to strike. she
reaches into her clutch & pulls out her Beretta Pico; it’s sleek &
black & fits smoothly in her dainty hand.
the air is all of a sudden cold, cold as the blood in my veins & the
icy stare in her eyes. she’s about to do something outrageous &
justified, something that will earn her the naked sobriquet of
femme fatale –
sure, I can feel it in my gut
where I take the last bullet…
(Art: Albert A. Allen)
Published 9th Feb 2016
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
likes 15
reading list entries 2
comments 12
reads 1489
Commenting Preference:
The author encourages honest critique.
9th Feb 2016 8:01pm
Absolutely the finest of art Mr F. Your story telling talent knows no end. It ends as it should. With a bullet.
John
John
9th Feb 2016 8:40pm
Fantastic. You are such a pleasure to read. This is grandness at a great scale, I bond with that girl hard and heavy, I get that used feeling, that self-abused feeling. She was fabulous. You did her such a justice in her injustice. A great, great read.
9th Feb 2016 8:49pm
There's only so far you can push a woman beyond her own terms until she pushes back...on her own terms.
Great write, John. Really enjoyed it. Thanks for sharing.
Great write, John. Really enjoyed it. Thanks for sharing.
10th Feb 2016 1:26am
10th Feb 2016 2:34am
You always have these beautiful ironic love that are compelling and alive. I always appreciate reading your work.
10th Feb 2016 9:13am
10th Feb 2016 9:42pm
when the seed is planted...we must always be careful what we wish for ... it may come in the slightest (but sure) hand ...
excellent write JohnFeddeler
excellent write JohnFeddeler
10th Feb 2016 10:20pm
An epic piece of ink John...pushing is always for the foolish.
Cheers...Harry
Cheers...Harry
Anonymous
11th Feb 2016 5:10am
<< post removed >>
11th Feb 2016 5:24am
Anonymous
- Edited 25th Sep 2020 3:45am
13th Feb 2016 2:33am
<< post removed >>
Anonymous
25th Feb 2016 1:00am
Ma Dear,
It hurts on daring notes .
The power of this..
The power of you
It hurts on daring notes .
The power of this..
The power of you
