by RC Edrington
(06/28/06)

Insomnia Blues

I don't miss all your deep
throat blow jobs
in that downtown nightclub
where we first heard
Concrete Blonde & you
splashed black mascara
onto my eyes to birth
some hybrid new wave
punk poet
in the polished
stainless steel mirror
bound by chicken wire
of that unisex bathroom
that reeked of liquored piss
& burnt heroin,

nor all the quick lipstick smear
hair pull thrusts & fucks
as you knifed
your motorcycle boots
into my ribs like switchblades
in the trash scarred
backseat of your
ancient & abused El Dorado
painted Elvis Presley --
or as I called it -- pussy pink,

nor the long 100 degree nights
spent on your lost desert hi-way
as I snorted white coke lines
thru the adobe mesas
of your breast,
down your hard chest
& into the valley of your stomach
in search of midnight rain
that clung like pre-dawn dew
between your bruised thighs,

but I do miss
your pale & taut body
jack knifed into
my leather draped chest
on that cold cement
warehouse floor
littered with other
happily young & homeless
couples like us,
as the fiery tangle
of your neon red hair
sparked warmth thru my cheek
as I dreamed always
& only
of you.

B&D

I choke on her paisley
pillow case, patchouli
incense burns my eyes
like tear gas or mace,
I fight her bandanas
my ankles and wrist squirm
like 4 knots on 4 bedposts,
like the locks of her hair
in the fist of her father
who was a drunk farmer,
and believed everything
long, tall & blond
must be hoed down.

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