haven of loneliness

 
I cruise to bars in different parts of town
hoping to hit one that the rain hasn’t found.

she sleeps. the days lay a brutal payload on her, & she hasn’t got the
fortitude, nor the desire, maybe, to carry the weight of my burdens
along with it. so I leave a note, the vague specter of a goodnight kiss,
on the nightstand.

harlots, street girls: they’re as common as sin. comes a time when I’ve
had my fill of them, nights when I hang in a pick-up bar strictly to drink.

I can detect her perfume as she approaches me, splashed on to cover
the smell of recent men who’ve smeared her with their grease. she makes
noises with her loose tongue; how she’s good company & I’m her type. but
I ignore her.

after a minute, she says, ’what’s the matter, Bud, you don’t like women?’
I stare at my drink as I tell her, ‘you’re not a woman, you’re a whore.’ the
glare from her eyes is a serious kinda heat, but she keeps her mouth shut.
she’s been hit too many times, I figure.

the conspiracy of night makes itself apparent in its barbarian orphans:
the dirty sex, the savagery, the agony. & I’m part of it, merely a deserting
soldier of these dire streets, weary of battle. so I make the wet drive back
to my sanctum, the shanty of my poems & a lover who is slowly falling
out of love.

the clock hushes away the low hours, & the most sublime melancholy
occurs in the deep of night  –  my haven of loneliness…


(Art: Serge Jacques)