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The Girl In The Picture I'm Holding
She slipped into the loose suit
of downtown bar slut
easier than the tequila
that slid down
her thin chute of throat.
The men at the bar told her
she was beautiful.
The eyes of an angel.
But not one of them
could tell her the color.
Not even in sunlight.
She gave them her body
for a cigarette and a compliment.
Looking for someone
and keep her from falling
off the sides of a strange bed,
into the emptiness of air.
She'd count backwards from 100
for the first few thrusts.
Then disappear until morning,
where another day of free shots
and side winks awaited her.
Heart On Sleeve
"Tell me if I'm talking too much.
Just stop me and tell me
to shut the fuck up.
You shouldn't have to sit
here and listen to me
go on and on about some girl
that you've never even met.
Although you probably know her.
She's banged just about every guy
with a working dick in this city.
Maybe I should look at it
another way: I'm a free man now.
Do you know what that means?
I'm free to go out
and get as drunk as I want
and take home any honey that I want.
For example, look at that blonde
at the end of the bar,
the one in the black skirt
with the ass that God must've
come down Himself to bless.
If I want to go over there
and buy her a drink, I can.
If I want to take her back
to my apartment and ride her
to work on Monday, I can.
Of course, I'd have to tell her
about the little present
my ex-girlfriend left me.
But the doctor says it should
clear up in a couple of weeks.
Did you know that
Gauguin and Nietzsche
both died of syphilis?
Thank God for modern medicine.
Don't we both know that?
What are you drinking?
I'll pick up the next one."
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