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

with,
in her

erotic holy

sighs,

heard only

if you were paying

half of your attention.

Our horned demons

of contraceptive clinical

controversy,

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

rationale,

quick slick tilting of lands

beyond naked nursing sight,

but thundering in

sound and energetic brassy

magnitudes

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

dimensions,

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

disheveled

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

sermon.

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

angels,

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.