AK47 torchsong

 
that lonely guitar, the way she makes it weep,
it gets on my nerves. even when she sits on the bed
with nothing on, fingering the frets & steel threads like
Joe Strummer, my erector set goes down, down, like a
torpedoed battleship.

she could sell her nude pictures to a voyeur website. she could be
scoring tricks on the corner, bring in some cash to keep us in
whiskey & polenta. I should write ‘Slut’ across her chest, ‘Cheap
Whore’ on her ass, make her walk the hard streets naked & let
the town pass judgment.

fallen soldier, brooding drifter, all the things I used to be; a dame
can strike a match & burn it away quick, let the ashes blow in the
wind. it takes a tormented man to beat a woman.

when every bottle is empty, I get drunk on the mournful cantatas of
Them Are Us Too, & I cry, I cry, along with Xarah Dion, who never cries.

if I could run, she’d miss the rough hands spoiling her hair, the burning
sting on her cheeks. the maroon welts on her plump buttocks that make
the dirty girl inside her leak out in exquisite orgasms. she’d sit with
nothing on & arouse her lonely guitar long into the night… if I could run.

there was a time long ago when these noir chronicles were lost
in the telling, before an ancient oracle rubbed two sticks together
& made poetry…


(Art: Ergy Landau)