Friday, July 17, 2015

Fucked-Out Glimmer.


Fucked-Out Glimmer
by james bezerra


Mona Lisa smirk
and fuck-me boots.


Lipstick already a little smeared,
plastic black crucifix dangling absently.


Marlboro Red Bull breath,
the dirtiest of whispers.


A mess when you’re drunk
and you’re always a little.


You’d wiggle out of black skirt,
toss push-up bra into dark, kiss hard.


I loved your pitch black hair in the mornings
and dry raccoon eyes,


hang-over glare,
and fucked-out glimmer.


A water damaged Portrait of Madame X,
a sweaty dye-job Lady Godiva,


my own little Suicide Girl 
of fucked up makeup


and your objectively
and scientifically


and - no kiddingly -
perfects breasts


which I both miss
and still appreciate


even though I know
you’re only twenty minutes south of here


every night,
maybe on your back,


and I don’t want to know
so I just miss the girl


who made the memory -
who bit purple into my shoulder -


and otherwise
I just pretend you’re dead.

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