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R.C. EDRINGTON
Heroin #158 I had intended this to be a love poem, Summer & it could have been had you not crashed into the bedroom like some Gulf War vet screaming as though a grenade had just exploded in your head & flashed the latest abcess on your arm like some botched tattoo so now instead of a love poem I once again toss the pen & page aside for a clean syringe & shoot you up between your torn fish-net stockings & purpled painted toenails Bridget late nite nicotine jet black coffee fueled by shots of Jim Beam & the worn radio plays the way worn radios always seem to play static & soft cool jazz tinged by the solo sobs of a pawned saxophone in this stale & dusty hotel room & there is nothing on my mind as cigarette smoke curls & drifts like some wayward ghost out this open window & down into the unlit alley & somewhere lost amidst the dumpsters amidst the piss & puke soaked cardboard boxes amidst the spent wine bottles cracked and bleeding on the asphalt like the homeless flesh that once sucked them into emptiness there is a rose straining its way up through the torn membrane of a patch of soil in desire of dawn & I only need to close my tired bloodshot eyes & listen in faith to know it's there a faith I once wasted on you RC EDRINGTON'S ONE-PAGE E-ZINE CAN BE FOUND AT SPENT MEAT |
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