deepundergroundpoetry.com
hustlers come in broken beds
Raymond Chandler said everything begins with poetry.
she might have been the star of her own ode by some romantic
poet, all quilled up in fancy dictation. or maybe she was tapped
out one keystroke at a time by one of those hard dames, like
Parker or Plath.
you could count the long parade of broken hearts by the notches
on her solid gold lipstick tube, or the bruises on her thighs, close
to her tainted love ride. if it’s open for business, I’ve been there.
she followed the bright lights that led through the champagne
supper clubs, down the wet alleys to the shady motel. she
promised a joker the moon & a handful of stars, & she always
delivered.
when she took off her tight clothes, un-dangled her jewelry, let
her hair hang loose & shook her head just like that, it was then
that a man decided a woman, every woman, was built on the
devil’s assembly line, strictly for sex.
sure, it was the kind of real passion that doesn’t come in movies
or dreams. that’s how it was with her; how it was with me.
she had that old Hollywood glamour, & the truly beautiful kinda
spits in my face. I needed to rough her up some, part of my own
insecurities, I figure.
pulling her hair, biting her lip. my tongue a little too deep in her
throat. squeezing her firm charms hard, very hard, but her moans
told me she liked it that way.
when the cherry bomb popped, it was sudden & vacant, & I
choked on the regret. there must be a name for it, a dirty name,
but we can’t handle the shame, so we call it love. & when it ends,
it hurts just as bad.
that’s the way it goes in my noir city,
like a love story written in Hell…
(Art: Danny Clark)
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