The Nightingale Sings the Blues

The shining eye of
that howling sun
left me parched and
pleading to the sky
for one more desperate
day in the lightning
that she covered my house
in her
erotic holy
heard only
if you were paying
half of your attention.

Our horned demons
of contraceptive clinical
whipping and quipping whimsy
thick forked tales
and sloppy tongues
persuading us that
we were less than deserving.

I rose up to
exorcize fanciful fucks,
faking orgasms galore at teatime,
rhetorical subliminal
messages raking
breathing burned coals
on our delusion days,
skin so soft it
blisters in the long nights
of anxious waiting
for the world to start
its counterclockwise
quick slick tilting of lands
beyond naked nursing sight,
but thundering in
sound and energetic brassy
with their sultry raspy chords.

We invisible astral bodies
quaking in rhythm
to each other,
bumping and humping
to the heartbeats of
earthen tides with
the moon in our wake,
we ache to be free of
the construction:
bars, cages, euphemisms,
sly manipulative beatings
and scissors sniping at
the staircases that we
wanted to descend down,
to the dripping dance floor in
glorious waves of euphoria.

I am a fucked harsh artist,
trying not to give a damn
about your cruel
obviously feigned
sweet salutations,
your wasted efforts
of arthritis and dementia,
mania lapped up like
dogs to lake water
on a humid day in florida
where you soak in sweat and
pant epitaphs just to regain consciousness.

Stop it,
enacting punchy pick up lines,
sleazy stereotypes scratched
down my bloody aching back in
the heat of the moment
left me deathly dangerous
on your floor that smelled
like post-vomit drinks and mildew.
I refuse to be another
no-name numbered girl
to hang in your closet
of accessories along with
bragging rights to
esteemed colleagues
of cool.
Fuck you, thanks.
I grabbed my weeping dress
and got the hell out of there,
putting my shoes and socks
on in the car,
breathing deep down to
my swollen lungs,
heading off the panic
at first glace and second

Marry him because you must,
the bruises are your fault
scoffs the dresser drawers
oozing their dirty diatribes.
Be her please
sneers the wives on main street,
snifters buzzing and swishing
their bent noses back and forth
to the ticking of the watchtower-
instead of just this silly stupid self of mine,
repeating the glossy sheen surround sound
media man.
Tourniquet temptress
has a hard time with trusting
anyone because experience
has taught her that no one
ever stays,
due to deadened eyes,
death certificates,
cold remarks
because it made you feel
better to put someone else
underfoot than
find glints of hardened
truth in your own fucking face
in the midst of rites of
religion and politic propaganda.

Thus I closed my
tainted eyes to
your twisting lies
and looked northward
into the moonlight,
awakened away from
the malice and
coffin banging hypnotics
that made snide
remarks in the echoes
of consumerism.

You tasted like sweet Spanish moss
after a hurricane,
damp and foreboding in
its voodoo swing,
halos falling off their filthy
floating downstream
to some new horizon
where the twilight
makes loves to the sea,
and I felt that warm
hearth sense of home
settling gently down to
my tingling toes,
filling me up
with reverence and
glittery glow as
the grandfather clock
waves goodnight through
the gloom
while the nightingale sings the blues. 

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