She sold flowers atop my cigarette’s sting,
And soiled steppe -
A path splattered someone,
Clocks kept prior and piano strings.
She’d be my last resort,
Parallels bottled – Two-tight braids,
Scarred upper lip and eyes deep,
Diggin’, diggin’ deep into me.
She’d **** if she could,
But money met is money spent,
And knifes in backs are bad for business,
So she’d always be mine.
That said, I’d always be hers,
Scampered, sleepy, and with one drunken
Right eye to wander east come
Sin under satin.
But the hour’d arrive, “One” becomes,
And the breeze would do what it does –
I’d see the sea, the sky, and lastly to hear,
She’d set up shop elsewhere;
She’d be happy, he’d be happy,
And I’d be somewhere sullen,
Somewhere awful, somewhere scribbled,
An echo and if only, a stain upon her altar.
Rock-bottomed loneliness and a lifetime ago.
