Trembling Pawn Thunder

Ambience fending, resignation pending. 
One big huff, a final smokers puff. Voila! Our big fat wolf 
has had his way, oh so violently, with a pretty little piggie far shy of twenty. 
The classic modern fairytale. Mamma read you something different? 
Sorry youth, but in this world, you’re expected to read between the lines. 
Oh, and to wake the fuck up. 

Little piggie, do you remember the eve of this? The value thrust onto you 
like the glistening sweat of the wolf’s effort sworn bliss, little miss, 
how did it ever come to this? The worth, the meaning, 
from the corpse of failings to the kerosene-drenched 
part way sense of the something apocalyptic. What was once an adventure, 
the love of a fable prince, now as rotten as everything since. 
Whatever happened to his winning kiss? It dissolved, a heart of nothing, 
and all that’s left is your tears and exactly what you knew was coming. 

Oh sweet memory, how this was once just a bit of fun to better the day! 
Letting the unloved real wife poison sweet homemade biscuits, 
feeding the children a quiet death as the milkman passes and 
the calvary of justice never leaves the storybook page. Comfort food fiction. 
You're just young age, early stage, but as the wolf washes your taste in vermin liquor, 
you wrap up in blankets looking for warmth as if in a spotlight in centre stage, 
still waiting to be paid your emotional wage. 

But the wage of love never comes in this house of mad hatter bitter fun. 
A far cry of the whispers of promised shelter, but in eyesight there appears none. 

It’s never too late buttercup. 
You could do as he asks, and kindly suck it up. 
With the end of this fling comes the death of everything. Locked in some 
cheap motel, a box for the wicked, drugged and practically finished. 
Feeling angry? Jump off this balcony, but don’t think 
for a second you’ll be anything more than the litter of the diminished, now finally finished. 

You run a hand along the balcony frame, contemplating. 
You’re at dissolution, end of the cyclical sin, but don’t 
forget your stamped, cheap property that might do alright 
to service and suffice in being the wolf’s next saturday night delight. 
Trembling hands hold unwanted breasts. 
You are the heartbeat of a fallen district, an angel with plastic wings, 
armed with a druggies needle and some rope to sow your miserable skin. 

That, or to hang yourself. Simple and effective. 

Now your up! Do it quick, before it is for nothing at all! 
He won’t turn to stop you since he knows your shrivelled skin, 
but a feather, floating, drifting, grey with little white to fight the awaiting black abyss. 
Feet up, are we ready so steady to cry off we go? 
Yes, no, maybe so, sway between a future night and a heaven you know, 
by some internal glut, is a pale reflection of this shit nutcase rut. 
Your price tag is your flat butt, sin glory slut. 
The wolf lights a cigar and thinks: 

Just another cut, slice of life. One of the maggots.

Leave a comment

    Add comment