un amour pour le noir

 
dim lights & soft music. the dames try to sell me the proposition of
romantic liaisons designed just that way. but I stack my jukebox
with darkwave vinyl. & everything about a doll is done better in the
dark. she’s the right shade of pretty when she blows out the candle.

I’ve listened to a sultry singer called Somegirl. insatiable drum machines
hammer the air around her, splitting infinities like anechoic shrapnel, as
she follows traces to nowhere. she’s loved once too many, but she knows
in her heart she don’t need nobody. (sure it’s bad grammar  –  sometimes
it takes that to make poetry.)

the woman I spend nights with tells me how she likes it dirty. when a lover’s
hands get too violent, she backs into her fear, & adds up all her reasons for
living, & all her reasons for dying. at that final, fantastical moment, she
chooses to live, & spreads her legs.

we consider our vigilante’ sex, hard as a concrete highway, & can’t determine
if it’s an allegory for living, or for dying.

she’s the fugitive kind, running toward the light of a falling star, stumbling
when the ground shakes. she wants me close when I need to be off
somewhere, to drink, or to write.

her kisses are strictly vintage French, & our passions collide when we are
branded on our nakedness, one intense creature with the parts of a man
& a woman. but I know she can only hurt me.

she tells me she’s never loved before
and maybe that’s her fatal charm  –
to love once is once too many…


(Art: Christophe Boussamba)