Tristessa:Sad Women

 

Sat stretched on bathroom floor

            and watched two beautiful thin young girls

            inhale their private heavens thru a dust-off can

            just before love of brown spike to forearm vein

            with teeth chattering and moans.

Happiness not a warm gun rather hot dose on cold winter tile

            and a frosted beer/full cigarette or that final fix that cannot be had

            just enough pleasure to continue the hurting.

As sprawl out think “how did life come to this? No youth.”

            at least not the way I knew it.

And they continue,

            like the natural occurrences of the worlds and their glories.

Then I realize I am this can of dust-off

            “Ill dust you off my shoulder” they say

            I never seeing this pain fully they see

But they bring me so close     

            as they brush me off their garments

            and lock doors on me

            and send me out for Bulgarian shot glasses full of Kentucky vodka

            while they speak poetry with stoned/drunken whispers

            and they only whisper while looking away.

My little Tristessas’s

            my two little angelic unobtainable rogues,

            dancing madly the streets of madrid or Hollywood blvd

            bodies gesticulating the Iliad in the mid-night shadow of a foreign city.

Breathing swallowing shooting smoking drinking f*****g in their false heavens

             me in true hell/ beautiful hell

            a hell they made for me/fires of indifference/amputated apathy.

“I Don’t Care!” lies as it rips me apart

            “yeah ill come over gladly” as I know ill be broken by sun-up

And I hate them

but ill continue/ knowing my veins too clean and face too puffed to meet them in paradise.