blind moon (artemis rev.)

death's head in cashmere
stares, coolly
into the swirling patterns of the ice
that melts into his whiskey.
each shot stabs into the frosty night
the fire outside is loud,
not quite as loud as the record player
which rocks back and forth
perched precariously on a chair arm
here's looking at you kid
that and my god damned innocence
as it has brought me nothing but grief
in a world as perverse as this one.
the fake fur on the naugahyde stool next to me
is making me sneeze
making me sick
sick
you make me sick
love sick.
you can take a sabbatical on your sabbath
but there is nothing sacred
about my saturdays.
I just do another kind of work,
pulling all of this lead out of my chest
from cupid's bullets
the lead that weighs me down
makes me do stupid things
makes me treat you like someone different.
thinking about pink carnations
that grow in your hair
long white fingers,
and eyes
brown eyes,
very pleasant
filled with a kind of dull lust
a little disappointed
but ready.
I like that.
this brings a smile, then
a sigh and an obscenity.
a good smile. sharp canines
a good coincidence,
but a smile always noticed.
that's too bad though
they warned me about you.
don't try my luck, they said.
I wasn't making any presumptions
wasn't playing dice or even browsing tables
just curious
but they insisted.
it was good advice but things
things didn't go the way I planned
here I am drinking the remants of whiskey
and lukewarm beer and
trying not to sound like some maudlin crooner and
failing and
counting the mistakes on both hands
wondering
when the sun'll come up
when can I see it on that beautiful bronze hair
like artemis' helmet
telling myself I won't say anything ever
because once she knows
yeah once she knows I'm out the door
along with all the rest of those silly fools
who wanted cheap love off of a girl without a brassiere
and how could I blame you
for crimes imagined
but men we're just awful creatures
that comes with the modern world,
we're all awful
we're all just cunts.
when is the sun coming up?
when am I going to be sober again?
what time is it in los angeles?
I'd like to know
I'd like to go back to being myself
because
thinking about you makes me feel
awful rough.

courier (9/2/09)

it was a rough morning.
I ruined my suede shoes
in cold September puddles
my cigarette fell apart in my mouth
and I had to fight off
horse jockeys in their cars.
I was spitting tobacco,
oilslick haircut
and a black eye.
my predictions, for worse
usually come to fruition.
when it gets too thick
I drift to the alleys
and cut my teeth
on a blue harmonica.
singing songs about trains
lovers leaving
arriving
usually late.
the smart decisions, well
they usually end up just as tough
no, I don’t want
to shake his hand
I don’t want to make nice
for my own sake
for your sake
tell me, did
you stop to think about it twice?
no,
I wouldn’t have either.
al green keeps singing on wax
those beautiful black souls,
give me credence to swoon.
no common beauty,
are we really the same?
smiles have become
synonymous
with the kind of life
you like to lead.
so one of us
must be doing it wrong.
surely,
it won’t last?
after all,
that was your excuse.