Thursday, February 14, 2013

For Valentine's

Again an old, old work (More than a I decade, I'm thinking. I was probably still in college so be forgiving) gets a cursory dusting and a brief bit of breath before it returns to the crypt.


Late evening and flashbulbs going off in the apartment
Two deaths, an assassin and a slut
Cheap perfume, pretty French poems
Empty glasses and cigarette butts.
Could be three weeks, a year, may be a few hours back
Can’t really be sure of how we ever met
Only muddy rain sweetening your armpits
Filling mine with the scent of death.
You offered your body and asked for my soul
“I don’t have one to give,” I said
(Scares me to think, would you have left me then?)
Should’ve ripped it off a vagrant Christ instead.
We made love tender and you drew blood
With gentle passion, with insane lust
You pulled me out alive drenched in birth fluid
You left me to die buried in dust
You twisted your knife in and cried on my shoulder
Strange as it seems, I felt remorse
You pulled my guts out and begged me to help you
Then turned back to carry your own cross.
We were so blind as not to see
That we were miles away and worlds apart
Me, the killer who killed myself
You, the bitch who stole my heart.

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