Fucking & Punching

FADE IN:

INT. HONKY TONK MOTEL, BOILER ROOM – MIDNIGHT

There is a fire that licks the bucket’s rim,
There is a clunk in the copper pipes,
There is a Frida forgotten in a river nameless,
There is a con-man in my round yellow window,
Swollen in my favorite chair,
By the candle, he swells, 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 a foul bastard.
The dragoon dances on his whiskey flask,
His kept woman tests the zeal of a switchblade to sip life and form conspiracies,
Bored to death, on her stomach, she studies a smiling artery behind his Achilles,
The gullies in his torn heels,
The thunder mocks both geniuses from behind a nylon curtain,
As the city rinses itself from a vile date,
But he writes,
Boy does he write,
Writes an editor into a wicked story,
There, he maims her eyes by tight writing,
He parts her goldfish, scissors, in two,
But bored to death, he pities the homeless in his story,
For he tinkers with their sudden deaths,
And after much tinkering,
From newly erected light posts,
Does he string them all in twos and threes from raw ankles,
For deadly things we must all perform,
Editor and goldfish,
Writer and vagrant,
His kept woman braves his reading,
In a good one, everybody dies.

The end.

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

FADE TO BLACK

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