The Moon is a Neon Light
She is love and light
and wild mood swings
and laughter, and a rictus smile
that says she is on the brink
and every other guy
in this dive bar
leans away to avoid her
but I’m stupid…
So I take a stool near hers.
She asks what I do
and I tell her I’m a poet
and leave out the day job.
She slaps my thigh and squeezes,
tells me she just must hear a poem
but never leaves a space
between her own hurried words.
She tells me she lives for her art
but doesn’t see color
and thinks we all
should get along
and thinks the protests
went too far
and there are good cops too
but not her ex.
She ashes her smoke
in her neighbor’s drink
and puts a finger to her lips
because we’re in on this together
but even though she has
those 70’s titties
and you’re sure
her bush is
soft, wild, and warm
as a good dream
you head home
because you can only
pretend to give a shit
about gemstones
for so long.
So you settle up
and slip out as she
tells the next guy down
all about Sedona.
Back on your couch
you lovingly imagine
bringing her home.
When you finally fall into sleep
you’re glad you didn’t.
Horror Sleaze Trash 