RC Edrington-

Scarred Canvas

Like a lost car 

from a funeral promenade 

she drifts along the snow-lit shop fronts, 

with the collar of her long black trenchcoat 

cocked like a vulture wing 

against her pale neck and cheekbones. 

As she tosses her golden hair, 

wheatfields in Kansas sway. 

But she does not smile. 

She is tired of men 

who liken her hair to wheatfields, 

who claim to see mermaids puddling 

in the powder blue pools of her eyes. 

She does not smile. 

She does not want me 

to call her teeth pearls 

then pluck them away while she sleeps. 

Pausing, 

she stares through her reflection 

on a gallery window, 

and into a fresh stained canvas 

as though it were the familiar face 

of someone she once may have loved. 

A face which pulls her into a world 

draped in red and purple hues 

on nights she feels like shades of gray. 

A world where she almost... 

but she does not smile. 

As she raises her trembling hands 

to wipe fresh teardrops from her eyes, 

she's reminded of the thin scars 

carved up and down her frail tattooed wrists. 

And she slowly fades 

into an unlit alleyway... 

fades like a much too perfect rose 

in the violent hands 

of this narcissistic artist, 

brushed away by falling snow. 

Still In Hollywood 

We spoke, 

not remembering our lines 

so well rehearsed. 

For a moment, 

we shed our masks 

like soldiers after a war. 

I pulled the mirrored lenses from my eyes, 

hung my dusty leather on a rusty nail 

and held you...for the first time 

in a long time, with my own skin 

pressed firmly against yours. 

Words wafting from your lips 

like sweet smell of marijuana seeping 

from beneath the backstage door. 

The relief of touching you again. 

I'm sorry I left, but is that enough? 

The scars across my heart 

like the stale tattoos on my arms, 

still remain. 

Decades of playing cool. 

Days running into days into years. 

The caved veins of punk romance. 

The midnight amphetamine tremors 

that left me stumbling thru a corridor of mirrors, 

reaching out to find myself 

but only finding 

the cold hospital steel of polished glass. 

Too cool. Too smooth. 

Slam dancing in pneumonia infected dives 

to the thunderous crash of un-tuned guitars, 

as the blood of friends strangers enemies 

(god does it matter anymore?) 

slowly caked around 

the studded spikes I wore so proud. 

But here we are again, 

if only for one sacred moment, 

sobered by the death of a friend 

who placed her soul into a syringe 

and left it trembling 

on Hollywood Blvd. 

I'd thank god it wasn't you, 

if I could find one... 

walking alone down this suicide stained street 

who didn't believe salvation 

could be bought or sold in plastic bags. 

Seven wasted years and here we are... 

still in Hollywood, 

holding onto each other like 

a junkie to his bag. 

We're not 16 anymore, 

but are we starting to grow old? 

Am I growing old?

 

 

RC Edrington's latest collection, "Apocalypse Generation", was published by Tainted Coffee Press and is available through Zygote In My Coffee. His website is www.rcedrington.com. It contains links to his previous collections, reviews of his work, and links to journals and magazines he has been published in.