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Image for the poem noir for a silent lovesong

noir for a silent lovesong


she was keeping me from my normal agenda, which was to take
triple shots of my chosen perdition & spend the night in the
drunk tank. I never intoxicate myself on a woman’s beauty when
there’s a cheap bottle of whiskey around.

still, she had a certain appeal. on the barstool, her thighs refused
to hide behind a pretense of morality, & her cleavage had me
effectively cross-eyed.

the other jokers that hit on her, she turned them down flat. they were
all better looking than me, which was no major accomplishment,
but I never play for the odds.

‘I don’t know what you’re lookin’ for, doll,’ I told her, ‘but you won’t
find it here.’ she eyed me, serious-like. ‘maybe I just did.’ sure, I
shoulda drifted away right then, but I can’t resist the dangerous type.

at her place, I made like a gentleman while she poured drinks. I
guess she didn’t like it. ‘I went out looking for a man. got a bad
feeling I picked up a boy.’

okay, that made me real upset, so I hit her. hit her good. on the floor,
she rubbed her mouth, smeared her lipstick, & cursed me. ‘if you want
it, you better be hard enough to take it!’

I never raped a woman, but this didn’t figure to be rape. she wanted it
bad, & I could provide it.  bad. I slapped her & grabbed the front of her
dress. it came off easy, & her fancy underwear didn’t put up much
resistance. she swore again & scratched me, so I wrapped her wrists
behind her with my belt.

she was locked up good, with her ass up & her face flat on the floor,
as I undressed. when I went in, it was smooth as sherry. she flowed
like April streets when the snow melts. but her other dark little alley
winked at me, wicked as a one-eyed mistress, so I rammed in like
a bank-shot torpedo.

the rush of it was excruciating, then something exploded, & it was very
good. for her too, I figured, by the way she was breathing.

as I dressed, she laid out her story. ‘I picked you ‘cause you were the lowest
tramp in the joint. I have a craving to be utterly disgusted with myself.’ I
straightened my tie, thanked her for her hospitality, & walked out.


I always call a whore a lady, unless she’s just pretending to be a whore.
if you set out to be something, even if it’s dirty, be sincere about it…


(Art: Mariya Maracheva)

Written by JohnFeddeler
Published
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