Lonely Superette


Bored face. Chatter. For no lack of romance
do I seek this out. This white cotton bed-
room of a flight-jacket wearing dandy. A man
I found on the internet, to be plain about it. 

Alchemy in songs. Never in 
real time. Sex of course. Drunk. 
And in verse, chorus. I do not go the distance 
except for in a woman’s bed. And there

it is salty. Simple. Long. Boring. Beautiful.
Lonely, I hate to say it. So the dandy sucks.
Very highschool, and I feel like I’m watching cable.

But he is something I found all by myself,
even if I end the night, unconsummated. Because here
I am a woman. And in a woman’s bed, I am a farce.
But complete, at least. Sure.

In a woman’s bed…in a woman’s bed…in a woman’s bed.
Nothing is like dancing. Or smoking–eating perfect
wet. Nightswimming. Drinking long cold booze. Rock’n’roll.

So with glazed eyes I eat out the angel and grind
on the pilot. But mostly, I sit restless in a shaft
of light. 


Seven swords on bourbon street. 
“You have nice hands”
“I like how they look in rings” 
“At least our lives are simple” 

A seven of swords means someone has
a secret. The last blade shrouded. 
What do I know to be true? Pleasure over
Joy. Always. 

In Lorca’s ‘The Faithless Wife’
the maiden is taken at face value
as a bachelor. Like her,
I am actually a bride. Married to my bed. 
To my south. Tricky to look someone in the eye,
as a woman of faith.

Now… the blade coming down slowly,
sweetly, with a punchline. 
Here is my violence. Sleazing through the
isles of this little store. 


There are horses in the superette. 
There are cigarettes in the superette. 
And long lonely trees.

Of course I’ve told you about the hill!
with those grand blonde horses, like
free soldiers over the lake–a 
retina of pure blue!

Bottom line, I don’t know what smokes to get. 
what box, holds the pleasure? 
Very punk rock, to smoke in nature.
Evil, almost.

Back to the horses. What I wanted to say
was that I was happy. Looking at them. At
the horses who looked into the great eye of
Lake Bracciano. They were brothers. 
And their joy was simple. 

My joy is sparing, but my pleasure
can be bought, at the 
Lonely Superette.

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