It'll hurt when the fame is gone.
Jilted are my lovers, dying at my alter.
My rustic sabbaticals offered no peace from their wicked sermons.
Don't follow me here ,
for this is the part when my untrue nature is revealed.
They sent a limo to Toronto knowing my requirements all to well,
for I toyed with them with my lavished ceremonies.
They were All-star star-struck and glitter ranting...
they spake as if they were immortal.
Like they too could conjure the elements with the ease
of a snowflake tanning in Mexico.
Sometimes I believe I was on a billboard,
My dalliances were the things of beauty gone askew.
My margin of error was drawn in space and
no law was too rebellious to stop me.
Folklore was gelatinous and it clotted on their bodies
as I cranked the handle on the record player.
They writhed in serpentine splendor and
beckoned me to join as if I weren't the host
Trap music muttered madness into the atmosphere
but it made them all the more insane
The Bajan, the Jamaican, and the make-up artist from Beirut,
Saddled the armrest and chaise lounges,
wagging Geisha fans and tail-feathers
They didn't find me Christian in those midnights
for the whiskey sours liquored my intelligence
My faith, being just a thing that lacquered my mind's undercarriage,
had gone astray during the role-play up North
The succubus dyed her hair red
And pinned her medallion to my cleavage
The witch cooled my nape with Lolita lips,
and my Celsius dipped lower than my pants
The marquee madam was a fawn in silk pajamas,
salting my wounds with curry creamed kisses
All Three, a mystery revealed after brown alcohol found it's ways into their veins.
Modern tunes spilling out of a clockwork relic
swayed our opinions about the Vinyl right of way.
Willingly, we crashed into the next day with barely a scratch
Had I saw the light before I sold my soul to Clifton Hill
my faith would have been in my New York heart
and another's life would have meant something to me
But Bad wolves bellowing on the outskirts of Quebec
sensed my appetite for revelry.
They came through the backyard to sniff out humanity.
And all the tiny voices that asked for kindness and a ride home
were drowned out as I sang and drank with the wolves
Come hither now,
and I let the Bajan woman
bathe me.
For I was famous.
YOU ARE READING
MY little BROWN BOOK
PoetryThis is a collection of poems I wrote in an attempt to highlight moments of my past. People used to have a little black book they kept numbers and addresses of people they were involved with or interested in. So I decided to share some entries from...
