Great Train Robberies, poem #9

#9: Our Job is the Great Train Robberies

On the surface I am a man who bleeds and has blue blood.
It gushes,
It stains,
It slit-throat dies my collar,
Whether blue (or) white:
Into a deep Red half past dead.
I suspect an inquisition will be launched.
After the blaze of glory that will cause these businessmen and bankers_
To attempt a separation of my body from my head.
Please hear me now, I vow.
I will not allow_ your misconceived appropriations of my conduct_
To pave a path of larger virtue_
Conscript a newer logic, and make up parables about my motives on the day they strike me dead.
For her flesh is worth every dollar that they spend,
It pales as well as blushes,
I aim to pull her from her squalor,

And get below the surface of defenses that form the basis of her cries.
My hands are rough, to match my constitution:
Only knocking faces with knuckles bring solution to generate a proper exit for this operation sketched out in its entirety,
In dark places in my head.
I been knocked upside my head before, but I can count my victories as in the end far less pyric than the scale of my defeats.
When you let me caress your face it is like a jack knife to a swan.
Zeus as a swan, and you as perfection and me as the knife.
I run through you.
Because you let me.
Each night a promise of the last night.
I am addicted to you like a junkie.
Addicted to your eyes, to your moves_
The way that you steal.
All the attention in a room.
I’d like to rob a train with you.
We’d use loaded guns not the blanks with pistol whippings that we lob at late nights at each other.
I’d like to make our passions something of a grandiose spectacle.
Only bed room interactions need remain secret.
Our escapades will be the stuff of urban legend.
You’ll talk about me as a lover over until we are old and grey, I hope because we will make love and escapade and unrelenting fuckery until our hips give out to age.
But if that is not the way it goes down, cookie crumbling courtship,
I am certain we will never forget each other.
I’d prefer we do your robberies in your fatherland and retire in to the mother love o the Caribbean. I am certain you’ll grow accustomed to the Chornay eventually.
Somewhere in the Caucuses.
The setting occupied Ickeria!
If we get caught we will be tortured, and that as you know better than me wil be just the beginning.
If we get away with it, it will be a political act.
And you will probably be accused on face book of marrying a communist.
If they clip me I’ll heal myself.
If they catch me, I’ll just hold out for your rescue and hope they don’t cut my eyes out first. If they catch you.
Have mercy.
I’d take to the theatre, by storm.
A plane or four.
If they harmed even a hair inferno!
Dasha, I love you if the world lacks applause we must generate it.
To tears, to fears and via audacious candor.
If we robbed a train in Russia,
It would, or could be a victimless crime.
Because the oligarchs, the business men, they run those trains.
As long as no one died, we would be heroes,
So long as we dumped New Rubles in the ghettos of the Caucuses.
And performed the deed in style.
I know you love to watch me work a crowd.
Hands in the air for the people’s train robbery!
Like a Chechen Ned Kelly.
But obviously even a little more insane.
Remember when I got those hipsters to do nothing for years?
I bet with some irons they’d dance to tune_
Or storm back a ticket booth after a bar halled speech.
Or maybe just do nothing still because everyone is so well fed here.
Did I tell you lately how once I wished_
Well honestly hoped_
I just want to work under you and beside you.
On a Job.
All those boss qualities you’ve got.
I’d like to take more of your orders.
To compete with the material affections of other powerful men,
Well that is a game I will lose.
To run away with you to the forests of the Caribbean.
Live to see that old blue moon twice.
Now those are preferential odds.
Remember when you asked, asked me to drip_
Drip hot wax on the fingers that I shoot with?
And then on your back?
And it was like seduction with nowhere to go as the midnight clocks struck.
And you drip it now on my iron spine.
And I admit longing is a certain kind of torture too.
Irons like I used to run the run the Q Train job.
The Tel Aviv Plane job.
The last evening in Spain job.
My little girl loves to eat so I got to make sure my girl has enough to eat job!
‘Til my lights go out,
Those fires below my brow are turned silent,
In a blaze of more incoming fire;
This gun is for your hire!
It is to now be your gun only.
And whatever occurs;
I shoot just for you still.

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