The things you mumbled
at your tattooist’s
cold apartment
had little consequence.
You said the honour
of public greatness
is to be sweetly veiled
in pigeon droppings.
Having recently discovered
Sherry you’ve forgotten
most of the last month.
Still, I’m enchanted
with how you let
the word Dubrovnik
roll around your mouth
like some forgotten
tonic. You sprawled out
in the witchgrass
like a wounded insomniac
and this prism you insist
I window wash
has a crooked bullseye
slumped around a gross
misunderstanding
of what it really means
to act like evil twins.
There is only one true
vandal; let your eyes
orbit around the room.
You’re mumbling again;
it sounds like you’re saying
I’m fond of widows.
We’re moving inappropriately
through Amontillado,
lightly headed for a mile
wide in-limbo.
Do you ever want to poke
around in the sticky
ink of something more
intimate? Less rhetorical?
I’m an old car in mint
condition. You’re marooned
in an equinox as the melon
queen of tattoo parlors.
+++
From subTerrain #68 (Pulp Fiction)