Delilah in the Boulevards

Samson and Delilah, Guercino, 1654, oil on canvas. Access number 316.

Delilah in the boulevards,
Night latched onto day and dragged on.
Shadows walk past the windows now,
little dogs follow little girls, taking little shits.
A fabled twist, this is that taboo they speak of,
She will consume you whole,
Wrap you among moist thighs,
That passion will ignite the sheets
and start a bush fire.

You will find a woman that will make a fool of you,
I am promised.
Your Potiphar’s wife,
When you see her coming down 9th street,
Flee boy — flee.
When you see her smile from the bus window,
From across the room of scented clowns,
In that goddamn magazine place,
Give her your best damn frown.

For there is much toil with that joy,
It burns out,
Slowly in the breeze,
Or a mad church woman walks up and puts it out.
They will never know that honey
of some forbidden affection,
And for this, they have bested us.

When all is done,
And a good man falls off that red ledge:
The birth of me, the death of me,
Both will arrive holding hands,
And you cannot say which accident to dress up for.

She came to melt my demons,
You bet, they trembled on account.
And as is often the case,
She came with many of her own,
They are the ugly love-children,
That will poison our sleep and wells.

Once in a life,
When the wrinkles still fade at the end of a smile,
And bravery shines above profound ignorance,
In youthful spreads,
Some high-priestess comes into your shrine with a song,
And your own god-powers fly out the window,
And you know she will never stay the night,
And nothing will ever be the same after and since,
And you will ever find in the wash-sink,
A deep blood-red letter,
And some wonderful strand of blonde hair,
Piss on the sun if you like.
This one is especially for fools,
Another one bites the dust.