| To The Crack House |
[10 Feb 2004|07:51pm] |
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mood |
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music |
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Glass Vase Cello Case-Tattle Tale |
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The ice tinkles into the bottom of the glass.
“Baby, run to the store and pick me up…”
He pauses to breathe,
His lungs seem so small now a days.
“Some more scotch.”
She’s so afraid to tell him the truth,
“Baby…we ain’t got no money”
She says timidly.
Enraged, he screams
“GOD DAMN…GOD DAMNED WOMAN…GET ME A…”
Breathe
“Bottle…of scotch.”
So she drives to the slums
And she cries while she fucks
A total stranger
Goes to the store,
Comes home and finds him and his bong
Passed out on the floor
The next day he tries to make up for it,
“Baby, I’m sorry…thank you.”
He says sweetly
And she melts back into his arms again.
His arms are scarred with track marks
From needles.
His nostrils are bloody from too much powder.
And his lungs are black from cigarettes.
“Daddy…”
He whispers while he’s passed out from his
Quick way up, and fast way out.
“Daddy...why’d you have to go on and do that?”
He says as he finds a vein that hasn’t been used.
And at night when she comes in their room
With a see through blouse and rose scented perfume
He pushes her away.
“I need…a virgin.”
And he goes and he’s gone
Leaving her, all on her own
Driving to the crack house.
Driving to the crack house
Walking inside the crack house
And pinning a 7 year old boy down
And taking that…
“Thing”
Away from him.
“Give this to Cecilia.”
He tells him handing him a
20 dollar bill.
The boy doesn’t speak English but
He takes the money and leaves him,
There, there, in the corner
Hands over his head
Voices echoing in his brain
“You sick perverted fag,
Why’d you cry when you came?”
Driving to his old house,
Walking through the door
To find her and his gun
Dead. On the floor
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