dangerous lover

Dangerous Lover

The oracle has nothing to say, so Apollo is homeless
and the whole sea is an icy mosaic of queens and sultans
with smoke in their eyes.
It’s a collective writer’s block, a great depression
whose wheels squeal, thirsty for the oil burned by foolish lovers
with tattoos of names that will be revised with black boxes.

Miss Golightly was buried today
and instead of roses, costume jewelry littered her grave.
There were lines out the door at junk shops and pawn-and-loans.
The glamorous mourners went to pay their homage.
I paid my respects, and I’ve got no money left.

I married Shakespeare’s humorless clown in a shotgun wedding
and we plunged into deep water with a thousand other desperate people
and tongue tied rebels covered in kitchen grease.
Like most poet’s unfortunate lovers, he was doomed to forget me.

I am no philosopher,
I am just a chain smoker, and my friends grow old
as they release their balloons into the threadbare sky.
There is nothing left for us but an empty pack of cigarettes
and beer cans littering the floor.
The party is over, and it will be awhile
before we get paid,
get laid,
get our say.

I need a glass of wine to call a friend, I need a string of lights
to compare to a string of failures.
Call me a dreamer,
call me a hurricane,
call me a slut, because I am not subdued and pale blonde.
I am not a reassuring bible verse.
I am a red, red stain.
I am a dangerous lover.