She’d use the razors edge_to separate a pound of flesh_
A raw deal! Gratuitous, lavacious_
If not a bit surreal_illusions fade by escapade,
and how now we behold a separation of _
The fakeness, from the real.
She’s got me hand cuffed to a chair,
the musk of sweat, the ethanol,
the way she hangs her hair!
I say again: Beware! A safe distance ought be taken_from her mesmerizing stare.
You see that woman there_
And they all thought she came with me_
But my torture is the spectacle that you’re lining up to see!
For in my life things come in threes.
And if I made a bad decision, this Brooklyn, this is gully!
Former Soviets will have no moral scrupples_ they hang people from trees.
And to this the dame agrees;
I’m a colorful amusement_in a sea of suitors with an ache to taste the product,
And to get her on her knees. They say I might make enemies_
With my naïve proclamations of elopement, she says she aims to please.
But she gives no guarantees,
to fulfill her expectations it’s her pity I must ease.
She has me pressed against the bed_
She’s tasted me before and she’s lowered my defenses_puts her razor to my head.
“You cannot feed me darling,
You have no roof to shield the falling snow,
My tastes aren’t those of peasants,
And surely now you know:
You’ve set yourself upon affections that you know you just can’t win,
I’m One part Goddess_One part demon:
Once the vodka does the talking I let the sin come in.
You call me angel, call me comrade, but my signs the dragon fly,
You can call your tovarish:
But I will run you ragged.
And I will bleed you dry.”
Four months now she’s been checking in.
To utilize my tongue and pen.
For Sport_for Academics_
For pity and for Sin.
And then comes my renewed defiance_my manifest retort_
“You cannot say that you feel nothing,
In this disaster we do court.
I’d shield you from that falling snow,
I’d freeze before I’d let you go_
Alone again_unescorted into night.
I’d slave for you, I’d steal to feed you, and for every word I read you:
My values are those of peasants,
And surely all-my-life, my deeds have been:
On the side of right.
I’ve set myself upon affections that I’m told I just can’t win,
You claim that you are married_
But my rabbi says that if it’s a marriage of convenience then it’s only half a sin.
I’m One part Jew_And One part Irish_and my lungs and soul are Black:
Once the poems do the talking I swear I’ll win you back.
You call me peasant, call me foolish, but my signs the Eagle and the Bear,
You can call your tovarish:
But I will court.
Court you here and court you there.”
“Hopeless, hopeless, hopeless” she proclaims!
She’s grown used to these games.
A backbone flute, a mind to loot_a cloud in trousers,
Or a Russian Jesse James.
This has gone on since Fall.
She’s now pushed me against the chair,
To quickly wet my lips and yank back my hazel hair.
I tell her take it all.
And use the blood to paint an epic portrait of my heart upon the wall.
Bank not on moral fiber_
If you find my yarn upsetting,
And each slice a sullen sacrifice,
For my heart’s foolish fallacies of loving!_
_Of her aiding and abetting.
There is no escaping now.
I have lost myself inside her and have forsaken every vow.
I’m entrapped and fall in rapture;
I beg to never leave her sight_
And I cry out her name in sobs-Cyrillic to the Frosty Brooklyn night.
By: WSA.
Dedicated to: DASM.