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a poem by Natalie Byers

They Probably Called Her Haley

Comets are cold and alone --
maybe like the blow-up doll riding backseat bench
of Hunter S.'s convertible, all bloated, bat-eyed, until
they pick up Johnny and Cusack for a night of ether whorehouses.

Then she's not like the comet --
cold and alone, but a half-blown, lipstick smeared fuckface.
Johnny holds her hand, makes her real, before she's sucked into
the sun, great chunks spitting out rocket shine, burnt and unyielding.

© by Natalie Byers

Gutter Eloquence Magazine ~ Issue #26 ~ April 2013