My hands are no longer steady.
My pistols sit in decorative cases,
There was a time
that we would roam far and wide,
beyond the confines of our eyesight,
but now the night
brings only hunger and regret.
My old Ford would make the trip
through the country,
into the city
and I would spend fistfuls
of Uncle Sam’s money on you.
Only the best for my Baby.
Dinner at the uptown, haughty rooms,
with names like, “The Gilded Edge”,
or, “The Topaz Lounge”.
Drinking fine gin
and having a good laugh at the straight folks.
Sneaking in close for a kiss,
I’d run my hand up your thigh
and feel that little .25 Automatic,
tucked snugly into that Italian leather holster;
it’s metal frame warm from your body.
It made me so hard.
The night might end in sweat and bliss,
under the stars of the desert.
The back of the old Ford was our Camelot.
You my Guinevere and I your Lancelot,
because I could never be king.
There were times I felt like one, though.
The things we did for money;
lots of money.
Heck, it’d curl your toes to tell you,
but I won’t.
I can keep a secret.
I seem to be losing my grip on time,
like I lost my grip on you.
Lost in the snare
of that goddamn Methadone Jesus;
I couldn’t wake you up.
I just held you and cried.
I tried to eat my .45,
but you’d have been some pissed,
so I didn’t.
I just yelled and screamed;
and the weatherman.
Damn fool is sayin’ it’s a 25% chance of rain,
but it’s already comin’ down
and I can hear the thunder roll.
time don’t hold fast like it used to.
Sometimes I’m now,
sometimes I’m then.
I’m pretty sure there’s some times
I’m nowhere at all,
but I never forget.
You never forget
the first girl you loved,
or the first man you killed
and I’ve got my fair share
of broads and dead bodies
to accompany me to the afterlife.
I almost want to just leave you out of it,
but I can’t stop remembering you.
Like a veil of your fine lace negligee
gets draped over my eyes
and I can feel your hands all over me.
Your sweet breath on my neck
and the heat of us.
Fiery infernos in the cold desert night,
bright enough to beat back the stars.
Then that fine veil
glides down snakily
around my neck
and I’m fighting that old bastard again.
He’s bigger and stronger
and he’s squeezing the life from me,
but my boot knife finds his liver
and about a dozen other places.
Soaked in sweat and blood,
I disappear into the night with the money.
It would buy my first Ford…
Ah shit, I can’t keep it together.
Memories come apart,
like wet asswipe
when you touch ’em.
It’d drive a man to drink,
if I could remember what I was trying to forget.
I’m gonna sleep now.
Maybe I’ll have that dream again,
the one where we went to California;
that one’s nice.
I tell ya, Babe;
once the mind starts to go,
you’re sure glad ghosts exist.
See you later.
I love you.
HG – 2016