—–

She Told Him

—– 

Where’s that Shangri-Las record you wanted to show me?

You don’t even have a record player!

—–and

I never really loved him

Took too many pills

But I didn’t love ‘im

I was just attached

Like the world or the button sowed

I grew tired

—–and

Now I’m alright

—–and

Got anything to drink?

Since I’mma girl you take the scotch?!

—–and

Let me pour

—–and

None of my boys play the trombone

No matter what you heard

They don’t listen to Beefheart

Or wear the nice shoes he did

Leather gloves when it’s cold

As always, as he should be in the head

—–and

The heart ache is faint now

Now, now, no

—–and

I have to hold my breath to jail the hiccups

Pardon me, but

You look a bit like him

It’s the chin and the mouth above

—–and

I’m sorry

I shouldn’t talk so much

—–and

So, what do you do

With women over here?

——

—–

——

——

Vituperation

——

We’re writers, baby

We use Stephanie Meyer for toilet paper on early mornings

We make junkies cause we’re that dope

But right now –

We’ve got to talk:

I don’t think this is working out anymore

And it is you, not me

You always buy me ties of bright colors

Shit, have you ever seen me wear a tie?

Nietzsche said that clever people are

——never credited with their follies

Well, for that, I’ll make amends

Not the first time I’ve disproven a cokehead

Which you know and likely remember

 ——

Baby, we were writers

Now I’m the only one left

No painkillers

Cause I still enjoy the pain

I like the fire

Now missing from your eyes

I like the black

Of sleepless nights spent on words

I like the music

Of our past

Now use the postern

And walk away

You know the scripting

You’ve rehearsed it before

 ——

And

As our bodies break

As they will

At least I’ll still have something

That I’ve created

The only, lonely left

 ——

——

—–

This is where the insane go to die

where the lively go to flourish

where the artists find oblivion

where the lovelorn find an empty home

we are all dazed and found in necessity

unending stagnancy

unfortunate fragrancy

this is when my seedy scrawl

becomes me

—–

—–

—–

watch her when she cries

for no reason at all

that’s the important time

in any girl

sane or not

lovely and fragile

and strong

scared to falter

watch her, man

she don’t need you

but

if you love her

if you know

let her cry

but be beside her

——

—–

—–

The blank screen screams out

“I am Prufrock!”

That fucking bastard –

I’m supposed be busy

writing a Künstlerroman

about a young man

growing through the blindness

and mediocrity and promiscuity  

(all those promises skewed)

of love to create

true pulchritude in verse.

Sing for me ladies,

I beg you –

I need each sturdy vowel

each flexible, majestic consonant.

It’s not for me

it’s for the boy.

Let the stalks whine and wilt

let the wind give no sanctuary,

but let me write.

I promise

it’s really not for me

it’s for the boy –

he needs a home

like we all do.

He needs to feel the pain

it takes to be a man

to be an artist.

This night needs to close

on something made

on some experience shared

of peace found

of a song sung

for two lives to breathe –

because that’s all we have

each other.

——

—–

—–

She left me a glass of scotch by the door

with a note

letting me know the route to her bedroom

to the right

down the hall

inside

the purple cotton panties that I like

nothing else

besides the smile

enticing

inciting

I took a sip

kissed her neck

then slid into

the warmth

the womb of the bed

—–

—–

—–

Give me five minutes to explain

…

A murder of crows

Surrounding the woman singing

This crowd that sets the mood

This voice that makes it cost

The commentary that makes the sound disperse

…

But where’s the time

To answer why I don’t rhyme anymore

Just listen to the music

…

Try to see why we find the morning

Try to forgive every drunken, rambling call

Write out the stanzas

Because the voice becomes the verse

…

Just give me five minutes to explain

…

Black coffee then dark beer

Light the smoke then put on your rings

Find a bit of solitude then write about it

Longingly and pitifully

Unfocused

Because you don’t feel it anymore

But find it still

…

Spend the night

But give me five more minutes

I’ll explain it all  

…

I’ll make you remember your own heartbeat

I’ll set the meter

—–

–=-=

we’re all fucked

and

the space

and

another fatalistic grammatical remark

and

another bitch to fill a rhythm

and

another fucking space to make it

and another worth the while

we find it

but who’ll give a shit

—–