a poem by Kenneth Mulvey

take a chance transmission:
no sense in a lonely face

don't know many rules about
how to live impotent kingly
but I seen an acne'd woman stand 'neath
an apple for her emaciated man,
yeah, that's her line now so johnny
go well I seen
a man going to hell for rifling
brimstone afire to a seabreeze eyesocket,
oh no, johnny, I ain't gonna
use fancy words, ain’t asking
for your intelligence cock laid out
on a barstool, I'm just saying
if a hard rain fell well what
the fuck is we living in now,
we borrowing best of times?
we just gonna reminisce about how
we made it through some tough spells?
and how boy johnny, she licks her lips in
busted mirror, lights a smoke, exhales like she
trying to fog up the lowlands, leaving
everybody blind sorethroated as she sits
bored 4,000 above but smoke just
curls liquid out her nose, leaks reluctant
off the bar, heavier than air, another lost
whiff of fresh breathing, somebody
sneezes, somebody gets quiet,
how kid, how'd we get through
all that rain huh?
my name ain't johnny, what's yours?
fuck off johnny,
you wanna dance girl
ok johnny boy...I'll dance and
it's all slide guitar, languish'd
music seep in cigarette clouds
neon greenred, a wet cunt, a stiff cock,
denim rashing eclipse
voiceless thoughts abandoned, tympanic
membranes confused by sulfur stench
of nobody needing nobody else,
the bartender clangs last call
upon an iron bell, it's two
of whiskey
two of beer, you gonna

get even more wiseass on me now?

nah, she grins, nah, let’s
dance to that same song again,
everybody's gone we should too,
fuck you johnny boy and she
jukeboxes it nine times, she
drag him back to the dancefloor
say I don't need…I don’t want you honey,
they dance neck in neck, slow
johnny hun you'd die if you fucked me,
he slides her bra strap off her shoulder,
no darling, you’ll die horrible, no money for meds,
less'n a decade and I'm halfway through,
I mean, you keep kissing my skin
and I can't even bear that
fucking universe brick'd humanity outside
and her voice begins to ache
begins to scream and hide cold, his hands
squeezed in her wrangler back pockets,
begins to sound down and out,
her dance slackens, johnny swaying
with a stiff, he takes her in more,
moves her according to his gyration, her
fingers run out of his hair, don't
you fucking understand johnny,
I can't see any colored sky,
goddamn woman, I ain't sick yet
but I sure as fuck know every
star's got its own damned eclipse,
now shut up,
shut up and finish these quarters out

© by Kenneth Mulvey
 
Gutter Eloquence Magazine ~ Issue #10 ~ July 2010    return to top