Fucking & Punching

FADE IN:

INT. HONKY TONK MOTEL, BOILER ROOM – MIDNIGHT

There is a fire that licks the bucket’s rim,
There is a sizzle in the pipes,
There is a Frida forgotten in a river nameless,
There is a con-man in my round yellow window,
Sipping and writing bad lines,
Fucking and punching kept women.
Acting as if to be any good is to be any good,
Stealing from vanished writers,
What foul bastards.
The dragoon dances on a whiskey flask,
His kept woman tests the zeal of a switch blade to sip life,
Bored to death, she studies a smiling artery,
The thunder mocks that genius from behind a nylon curtain,
And he writes,
Boy does he write,
Write an editor into a wicked story,
There, he maims her, by tight writing,
Her goldfish by scissors in two,
But bored to death, he pities the homeless in that story,
For he tinkers with their sudden death,
And after much thought,
From newly put light posts,
Does he hang them in twos from raw ankles,
For deadly things we must all perform,
The end.

FADE TO BLACK

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