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,
By the candle, 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 bastard.
The dragoon dances on a whiskey flask,
His kept woman tests the zeal of a switch blade to sip life and conspiracy,
Bored to death, she studies a smiling artery, studies his Achilles,
His Adam’s apple,
The thunder mocks that genius from behind a nylon curtain,
But he writes,
Boy does he write,
Writes 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 erected light posts,
Does he hang them all in twos from raw ankles,
For deadly things we must all perform,
His kept woman braves the rain,
In a good one, everybody dies.

The end.

EXT. HONKY TONK MOTEL, ROUND YELLOW BOILER ROOM – MIDNIGHT

FADE TO BLACK

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