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Bass

July 7, 2013

ninety

I’m sitting alone.
And counting my dirty fingernails.
Flirting with how I’m gonna pay the next toll.
When you come sit down on my left.
“You look like Jake Gyllenhaal. Ever hear that?”
“Yeah…”
(Run with it you stupid twat!)
But you’re drunk enough for us both.
So we chat about films.
And you lean in close.
I don’t notice how much you look like her.
Now there’s no space between us.
And I lay my hand on your face.
Your mouth is too dry and you can hardly open your eyes.
You taste like a crematory.
Tongue like a jagged knife.
Preparatory for all the scars you were gonna leave in my life.
I pull down your panties and you’re bleeding.
I collapse, lay back and laugh.
You slap me and put your head on my chest.
I light a cigarette and wonder where all this is leading.
I tap the ash on your hip and rub it in.
You slip a finger under my chin and kiss the side of my mouth
Hiroshima hatred for your lips and your skin.
How perfect they are.
How good you look when you go out dressed like trash.
How easy it’s been for you to play the martyr.
I don’t need to teach you what class is.
When you’ve already come this far.
It’s wearing his blood like Jackie Onassis.
Pinstripe and cocaine psychosis.
It’s keeping crows scared from behind dark glasses.
Letting yourself get older.
Scrambling out the back of the car.
With half his head on your shoulder.
It’s showing up at my house first thing in the morning.
Soaked to the skin by a rain that stopped an hour ago.
And knowing that I’d still take you in.
Kicking off your heels in the hall.
And calling your mother.
You know how I feel about you and it doesn’t bother you at all.
You go to my room and you shed last night’s dress.
Climb into my bed and tell me you have to leave.
I fetch you a coffee and an aspirin.
I come back and you’re already asleep.

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From → Poetry

One Comment
  1. Enjoyed 🙂

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