Rian Love April 2019

The cream in my coffee swirls,

I feel the heat from my cup as I sip,

Looking blindly upon her as she spoke.

Just last night,

I worshipped at her altar

A disheveled prophet

Mad with desire and delusion

Lying prone at her feet

Searching for forgiveness.

Another temple built of bed linens and desperation

Lies in ruins a hundred feet away

No different than any other night

Pining for some absent father

To save us from ourselves and each other

As we fuck through our years 

Of poor decisions,

Tobacco stained finger tips

Tracing canyons carved by rivers of tears.

I know her name, but not much else

Of this wilted rose.

In the end, it is of no consequence. 

She loved the way my words dripped,

Like honey from a dilapidated oil drum

And I loved the way her legs,

Willowy and silken,

Slithered up through her black pantyhose 

To the hem of her dress,

Subtly hinting at the bloom 

Hidden beneath the cotton of her underwear.

It was all the excuse we needed 

To escape that shitty bar 

And disappear into our most carnal nature

For God knows how long.

Here in the light of morning, it all seems so far away.

Some forgotten dream of yesteryear.

There’s a knock at the door, 

She gets up and peers through the peephole, 

Her once pert ass now slightly sinking 

Into a pair of stained sweatpants 

Resembling a Pollock painting.

She announces her sister is at the door,

I know the truth

God has come to call us home

But I need a stiff drink

Not a hallelujah

Artwork: In Bed, The Kiss, Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec 1892

© 2019 The Beat Goes On