cubistpoet

There's a fine line between love
and a .44 magnum trained to your temple
as you walk across the room to refill
your glass of classic coca-cola
and forget to screw the lid back on
leaving carbonation bubbles to
swarm out and join a mariatchi Zepplin cover band
on the burbon filled streets of New Orleanes.

Why? Because my baby loves it bubbly.

And don't belive that just because
you sleep in a demilitarized zone
a pipe-bomb won't appear in your pillow
when you leave the mayo out to often.

Things spoil, things turn bad,
and I don't just mean food.

I've had more then one jar of heart-flavored lemondae
firment in my lungs and intoxicate me into thinking that
scrap-metal sex from trainwrecked relationships is worth saving
in the sterling silver safe-deposit boxes of what passes for
black-and-white Ozzie and Harriet normality.

Nicotine is not nearly so addictive
as having a warm pair of legs to lie between
on those spicy barebeque by the bay,
firework display on the back window
like a made-for-TV movie July nights.

And the local lady of the night
will only lay cold for a cold fifty
when I'd rather economize on
a cold 40 of colt 45
to drown the daggers of my eyes
at every familiar smug little
through the looking glass
down the rabbit-hole
Alice in Wonderland
livin' by the river of pedophile smile.

Out, out damn spot of sympathy
that keeps me crawling back to feed
this diease of libido-listening weakness.