I.
Cocaine between her breasts and my tongue is numb,
the moon is a fucking glitter ball with stars for reflections.
Pants stretched tight over this atomic bomb,
I’m driving fast, I don’t ask for directions.
II.
Gutterball, speedball, figure eight, funk bass,
I left a fork in the microwave.
Yellow-tinted sunglasses the size of my face,
smoking cigarettes in an aeroplane.
III.
The mob’s smuggling heroin into the city,
shaking hands in the alley, buying off the cops.
Hanoi Jane’s riding an enemy anti-aircraft gun,
but the real traitors knew the Gulf of Tonkin was a lie.
IV.
People so high their bones are neon,
the television rolls without vertical hold,
visions of bloody flesh shredded in green fatigues,
the Beatles have broken up.
V.
I’m ready for it to be over,
ready to come down off these platform shoes,
to walk barefoot through a cemetery of fresh graves and roses,
tip-toeing around memories too painful to relive.
Jay Sizemore dropped out of college and has since sold his soul to corporate America. He still sings in the shower. Sometimes he writes things down. His work has appeared online and in print with magazines such as Rattle, Prick of the Spindle, DASH, Menacing Hedge, and Still: The Journal. He’s never won any awards. Currently, he lives in Nashville, TN, home of the death of modern music. His chapbook Father Figures is available on Amazon.
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