deepundergroundpoetry.com
Bogie,
The smell of your cigarette smoke lingers in the air.
The sign across the street flickers -
Bathing me in red light -
That bright twenty-four.
I don't know where the hours went.
I hike up my skirt,
Just halfway up my thighs,
Just to feel the cool night wind.
I thought you were going to do that -
Like usual.
But you
Became colder than the air kissing my legs.
Maybe I could pretend it was you.
These sheets were messed up
By writhing
Aloneness
Your writing hovers in every crevice and
Your blue notes ring at every movement.
The shadow of your she haunts like ghosts and
I bleed in every painting.
The fog creeps in the street corners of my mind.
My fingers smeared ink on my notebook,
As I pen in lamplight,
Like the way your kisses would smear the red on my lips.
I know
The ink will dry and my lips will be left unkissed.
I stare at the wall where we promised we were art.
But I guess we aren't
As immortal as the greats.
We can go
Clandestine,
Letters or poetry -
Anais and Henry,
But a different rain comes.
Maybe I should weep with it, the rain,
Maybe it swept you away.
Or maybe you rode a taxi,
Your fast car,
With your gun - bang bang,
Caught a flight to her -
Caught a flight to nowhere.
I write it all before my big sleep -
Where I dream of you and noir.
Where I was femme -
And our love -
Was fatal.
The sign across the street flickers -
Bathing me in red light -
That bright twenty-four.
I don't know where the hours went.
I hike up my skirt,
Just halfway up my thighs,
Just to feel the cool night wind.
I thought you were going to do that -
Like usual.
But you
Became colder than the air kissing my legs.
Maybe I could pretend it was you.
These sheets were messed up
By writhing
Aloneness
Your writing hovers in every crevice and
Your blue notes ring at every movement.
The shadow of your she haunts like ghosts and
I bleed in every painting.
The fog creeps in the street corners of my mind.
My fingers smeared ink on my notebook,
As I pen in lamplight,
Like the way your kisses would smear the red on my lips.
I know
The ink will dry and my lips will be left unkissed.
I stare at the wall where we promised we were art.
But I guess we aren't
As immortal as the greats.
We can go
Clandestine,
Letters or poetry -
Anais and Henry,
But a different rain comes.
Maybe I should weep with it, the rain,
Maybe it swept you away.
Or maybe you rode a taxi,
Your fast car,
With your gun - bang bang,
Caught a flight to her -
Caught a flight to nowhere.
I write it all before my big sleep -
Where I dream of you and noir.
Where I was femme -
And our love -
Was fatal.
Published 25th Apr 2018
Author's Note
Written as part of NaPo/GloWriMo 2018.
Image: Humphrey Bogart, Casablanca, 1942
Image: Humphrey Bogart, Casablanca, 1942
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
likes 5
reading list entries 0
comments 9
reads 741
Commenting Preference:
The author encourages honest critique.
28th Apr 2018 6:13pm
Thank you, Ahavati. :)
John definitely influenced me as a writer, especially with noir.
John definitely influenced me as a writer, especially with noir.
25th Apr 2018 3:55pm
28th Apr 2018 6:14pm
25th Apr 2018 7:45pm
i don't know the scene, but you put me right in one. i almost didn't get past the first few sentences, maybe because of the stop-starts, but that's how so many narrations went back then. brilliant setting and no over-the-top communication of emotion... your balance was so nice to read. much enjoyed
26th Apr 2018 2:01am
28th Apr 2018 6:18pm
Thank you so much for pushing through and reading. I'm glad you enjoyed it. :)
Anonymous
15th Oct 2018 1:39am
Positively,
That is fantastic!
What a fine writer you are! I'm so impressed!!
Matthew.
That is fantastic!
What a fine writer you are! I'm so impressed!!
Matthew.
31st Oct 2018 12:20pm
Thank you so much! I really appreciate you taking the time to read and comment; it helps in taking me back to writing. Love and light!
- tpd
- tpd
