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.
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
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,
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.