luky

Hey all,
I'm a prose writer, not a poet, but the hubby wants some really short imagistic pieces he might be able to work into his artwork. So I'm giving it a shot. I don't think this even has to be broken up into lines, but, eh...what the heck. Don't know that he'll use this at all, but it's practice for me, if nothing else. I keep wanting to steal Tom Waits lines, though.
"As the clock ticks out like a dripping faucet/ Till you're full of rag water and bitters and blue ruin/ and you spill out/ over the side to anyone who will listen...." Aw, man! To be able to write like that!


Slam
by Luky

The night's already an aubergine mess. Heat holds
forth like a tryant, and folks move slow
down the sidewalks, fanning
for air and breath.
It's no night for dancing.

She squeezes into tattered thigh highs, the rips
snagging on toes, unraveling thin nylon strands
to lines fuzzing across her pale flesh. A short, plaid
skirt no school girl would ever wear, wife beater
white tank, over full lacy pink bra. It took handfuls
of lacquer to lay spikes into her
blue-black hair.

Sweat runs down her neck, trickles between her
breasts, gathers in beads on the small of her back.
Her black eyeliner melts and puddles in smudges under
her wilted lashes, like she's been crying
black sooty tears.

A moment's hesitation, then two, then three. Grabs keys,
cigarettes, lighter, what money she has, deep brown
lipstick, peppermints, phone in case he calls, says the usual
you going to Keefer's tonight, baby, maybe
I'll see you there.

She steps out into the aubergine night, the heat a smothering
hug the minute she's out the door, no friend of hers. It is
no night for dancing, baby girl.
Maybe I'll see you there.