Havana Road (#50)

 

# 50: Havana Road

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We could be in Havana by nightfall.

It’s what I’ve been whispering for years.

If I could just trade a pound of my flesh for just one single ounce of your tears.

 

Bloody paw marks cross my face! Self-inflicted.

Lash marked loved one; I am so careless for you.

Dug my own American grave in a record time, the scary parts of our company is that most of our stories are true. Avail me of your sling shot eyes, Last cartridge spent.

Temptation looks like you.

But, sin-not-simple-sinner!

Your thighs delight the treachery of lawless temperament.

Losing bearings righting wrongness.

Leather boots, And dark sun glasses, Skinny dipping long legged mikvah, digress under stress! What you wear under that dress is tougher than my mechanical heart or the flash of iron eyes scaling walls and the ripping off of clothing,

As the best dreams fall apart.

Over last supper, Our unsung broken heroes if the story’s told right can make all the martyrs grin.

Losing ones lost morals doesn’t make the skin itself once broken any thinner. Or the self inflicted violence of total recollection even a mostly piratic win. Temptation looks like you! How do you say exsanguination in Cyrillic?

I have not three fucks of clue.

I am too brazen for these bonds, As Benjamin bondage holds plantation risings, pale of settlement, comfort keeps the ghetto wall in check,

A noose about my neck!

The only true reminder, as I quiver amorous beside her,

What just one night loose in Babylon can make a brother do! And all this special for you, I pause to dot a check list, of what calamity ill next ensue.

For that’s just the market price to play, with a deadly creature such as you.

Some French-Reggaetone anthem belted out from the bodega,

As some abstracted grindhouse of a poem,

Or foreign tongued gift made of song.

And black death inside us, from those fires we long left burning, another late night in Brueklyn Soviet,

And we lied when we said that we knew our right from wrong.

I tell her, “We all just pretend that we’re strong.”

Like a tribute to golden aged exile. Or an ode to a bold deportee. She says that my goodness is good for her only half of the time. “But bless you you’re savage when beaten but always loving when looking at me.”

You’re drunk off your tired you’re constantly trying, you’re doing god’s work, so they claim. Just make sure that the salt it stays in the mind and not in the wounds as it distorts all the forces of blame.

What a spree! We did some violent pen to pad scribbling’s by cell phone at midnight.

Lately for her, and the glorious plot!

Plotting out plan dalet through z.

We all hope this violence you do to yourselves, is making a man out of me. The trouble with the nightlife in Brooklyn, Is that sinning comes mostly for free. When a thousand sweet words are the only way left_

_This city of Zion in a world of struggle has been bleeding the shit out me!

There is no lonelier place than the boardwalk at midnight. When your love lies in another man’s arms, And the ghosts and the screams from a life you had lived twice before_ are never completely drowned out by these danger filled banshee siren alarms!

Jessica asked what’s been killing me lately?

The Malboroman he has blackened my lungs and the Vodka has clouded the morals you so often condemn.

And I sold both my two souls and cut my own heart for the Russians just to try and see the world like them!

Madman, I hope she cries for you. As much as you secretly cry for yourself. As you dash your ambitious wilding dreaming,

On dagger ragged rocks of mislaid plans seen on Steeplechase pier.

Lover, lately I have no inclination for fear. Salt tastes like salt. If there’s blood on the streets you can bet a green dollar that god gives not a single shit, And always there’s a human to fault.

I’ve been a boxing a brickwall most lately.

And we all know the wall always wins.

When the lights went out you will be left alone with your failures, your torments and sin.

And a candle, will be the only way you better know the devils in your casement mirror. Death winks at you from the dirty mirror. And she calls for as you lie helpless and still unable to really hear her.

We’d could in Havana by nightfall.

It’s what I’ve been howling for years.

I’d easily trade a pound of my flesh for a single ounce of your tears.

 

 

 

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