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a poem by Doug Draime (1 of 2)
Romantics, My Ass!
Byron drilled him as he was
coming in the door
of Mary's Bar,
with his Colt .44.
The bullet hit Shelley
just under the collarbone,
and went through
his silk blouse,
coming out his right
shoulder blade
Then it hit Keats'
cell phone, as he was calling
the cops on his
crazy-drunk friends, and he
started thinking--as parts
of his phone flew all over
the bar--that maybe
these fuckers might just be
revolutionaries, after all.
coming in the door
of Mary's Bar,
with his Colt .44.
just under the collarbone,
and went through
his silk blouse,
coming out his right
shoulder blade
cell phone, as he was calling
the cops on his
crazy-drunk friends, and he
started thinking--as parts
of his phone flew all over
the bar--that maybe
these fuckers might just be
revolutionaries, after all.
© by Doug Draime
Gutter Eloquence Magazine ~ Issue #8 ~ March 2010
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