sidestreetwalks

The side-streetwalk;

She never knew my love was sub
limited. And she was always down.
It was hard to cope with
her legs in a choke
and worrying when the
feeling could come back
to my face.

Drunk and disfigured
disgracing a distant display
of alcohol drowning in concrete. Sub
merged between after
thoughts, and city blocks,
she often wondered where
the break lied. Where
my brakes died on the wrong way
highway - facing a carload of
trauma and a trunk of canned
"I love yous" - cruising past
the next backwards prostitute
to be hungry;

scratching her ass
and sucking a bummed drag from the lips
of a lonely lovagabond.

Maybe the air stopped breathing.
Muffled sounds of her
heaving into buckets last
night after screaming dry
'fuck yous' and prying her
ribs apart with mandible
sighs and heartfelt high
hits of gutter trash. But please

fast forward to tomorrow's
romantic hazard of tripping
lights and sinking skates in-line
by your sliding door.
Rocking notions of slumber
in somber midmorning hues.

Just drip poison into those
well-lit baby eyes to suffocate
the infantacide dreams you
forgot but only often spit
licks to dogbone scraps
and kidnapping facades.

Sure, you've swallowed four
dimes and caps, but the dead
can't whisper how great it
feels to really be alive. Because
all their roads have snapped
crisp and dried.