Charm Offensive
Let's cut the crap, Johnny Polite.
Brass tacks and who's got
The big brass cojones is all
I give a flying fuck for, and
All your would yous and might
Is give me an itch for whoopass.
Son, all that sweet-talk is shit,
So talk horse-sense or shuddup
My ears weren't meant to hear
Nothing but truth and if it ain't
Brutal, I can be assured, you're
Lying through your lily-white teeth.
Gunsels
They weren't
even their guns,
just dark-ribboned
hats, pinstripes,
disappeared pasts
(no gunsel was ever
anyone's son)
and a habit of
silence that was
more intense than
speech -- soundless,
they ducked in
and out the edges
of the scene,
glowering, with
the certainty of
their recorded
demise (a slump
against a wall,
hand moving
from breast
pocket to face,
wet with new
blood) recalling
those extremely
successful and
ancient fertility
rituals that
involved walking
out into the
spring rain and
fucking anyone you
happened to meet.
posted by Reen |link| 0 comments
