[old, old, old OG! and unfinished]

Skank ‘n Pickle played at
Slim’s that night.
That night sleekly coated with honey and leather,
leather vests and slow suede boots:
black and creamy-coffee brown.
That night the car stalled.
And the slippery metal door handle jerked as
I slammed it shut.
Damn.
I broke my nail;
the shiny red acrylic, yeah,
the same smooth shade of the car that stalled.
The flipped-off finger-nail dead on the curb.
And the stoaking steamy night surrounded us.

As we strode along with a
breaking clack of leather heels on that cement
sidewalk.
And the slow motion
of my thighs rubbing as I
strode along with my hand tight
in yours.
And the threat of
sleek hot-pants,
velvet black and, yeah,
dangerous.
That night the full
flying Easter-moon
out-shone those limpid stars, trying,
oh! how hard they tried
to shine through
the steaming, storming
nightsky.

The sooty smell of
old stars rose out
of the dreary alley.
The stalled car left
behind,
way back on some
street I’d never ever
remember where.

Hey! Then those sifted
sounds of the Easter-moon
called out.
I listened, real close.
Close enough to want to
believe I heard a
hard hoarse cry
coming from some
slow-dying star.
And the icy light
came down and tried to
seep through the
dusky dry nightsky.

And my leather dancing-boots
clacked on the pavement,
private.
yeah, those moments.
yours, and mine.

I slid a slow hand across
my neck and sweet
drops of sweat seeped over
the strands I brushed away.
I forgot about the slick
broken nail-blade
dead on a grey curb.
So I smoothed my fingers under
sleekly curling locks of hair
and slowly cut, yes, cut myself,
my neck.
And the salty scented
droplets closed upon that track of broken skin,
broken open like a
thick and jagged acrylic nail.
And the thick and searing night
surrounded me as I winced at
the sting on my neck.

May 1994.