Snoring at my own Noir

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Snoring at my own noir
Wondering: when will The Mark awaken?
He’s the perfect clown, straining to stay awake during his own Big Sleep.
Believing bluish jouissance protects him.
But he might as well be a glow-in-the-dark fish::

She co-pilots him down the dark roads beneath Griffith.

“Feels like I’m directing you to your doom,” she purrs,
peeling back black fur to show a thigh of scratched pearl.

He inserts a commercially nervous laugh.

“Some kinda femme fatale, eh?”
“Kiiinda,” she husks.

He already knows what “kinda” means
to certain girls.

There were Kinda cameras
around her Kinda-soon-to-be-ex’s house
Kinda pointing in every damn direction.

You can be a good storyteller
or a good secret keeper
but you can’t be both.

Secrets make poems.
Balls make stories.

You’re stuck inside a latenight HotelTonight subplot
with little but your hairy little butt
revealed.

The vaginal vignettes
you’ve been downing since birth
materialize into a perfect porno, starring you.
If only you had the balls to bring about
original images.

The costs would be less.
The rewards far greater.
Than cumshotting your lament
into her every single fucking crater.

_++[[+)++

Driving down my regrets on the 134-W
Not blessing my sister’s marriage
that’s one of the worst of the best.

I was too busy injecting black widows into my name
in the name of killing our mom,
too obfuscated in rage
to officiate love.

Case in point:
I’m standing under marble arches
in a Hollywood hotel lobby
where I’m pretty sure
the night clerk with dyed hair
just slyly robbed me.

I tell myself to check the Amex statement promptly knowing I never will
when
past some pillars, her ponytail,
black as her heels,
both shimmer &
cross each other
with practiced elegance

It stuns me how
I can breathe again,
in this soon-to-be catastrophe,
Oh-so naturally.

“What can I say, it makes my day.”
-George Roundy
(Guy in Shampoo)

“I laugh at this prank, this prank of decay,
and pounce thoughtlessly into my day!”
— Jimmy K.
(Bad dude)

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