Dirty Douts The Light

Dirty Douts The Light 
previously published Jan 16, 2007
copyright 2007-2012 @aladreth antoinette brown


"Is there no way out of the mind?" - Sylvia Plath

"Now... When it comes to you, and us, I have a few unanswered questions. So, before this tale of bloody revenge reaches its climax, I'm going to ask you some questions, and I want you to tell me the truth.
However, therein lies a dilemma. Because, when it comes to the subject of me, I believe you are truly and utterly incapable of telling the truth, especially to me, and least of all, to yourself.
And, when it comes to the subject of me, I am truly and utterly incapable of believing anything you say." -- from Kill Bill 2


dedicated to the spirits of the old wild, wild west 






My volcanic ash dusted player boy,
dirty is as dirty does boy,

I know you better
than you know yourself.

I know your lies.
I know your truth.

I know your make believe world.
I've lived it with you.

you traveled the long washboard night,
Italian girls whined you led them on,
glasses clinked at the old wood stove,
spunk filled beer clashed couch
taunted and teased the sports fanatics
The sun sets, wind blows
it's harsh fucked-up bother,

I tell you,
classy names
don't make fame

I'd make bigger
noise
if anyone
cared to listen

Midnight chimes
master steak chef Herb
in his leather coat,
drunk on margaritas
takes a picture with us

We tour the
heavy safe
standing
through it all
"no, I won't drink, I won't"

dance floor covered
in wood chips,
ash and piss
"but I will fuck"

I'll say it ten times and
do it twenty.

Our clipped wings rub
in restored red room,
tin ceiling mirror
our imperfect bodies
at end of thin hallway,

The Wild, Wild West
awakens right out
of Box Canyon
and Skull Valley.

Once, this place
was a Station Stop,
later a Bordello.

The ghost of the Madam Mary
laughs at our naive repertoire,
inexperienced silliness,
and trust.

She was killed here
a century ago
by an old man upstairs.
Her beautiful face
has appeared in the wood,
fire fingerprint,
stained and slobbered,
a cross between
gallant glinting nipple ring and
gaudy Elvis.

But I see it,
it's got to be fake, baby,
'cos I see it.

We know how to
rid(e) the spirit;
A bell,
book,
candle,
and a few chosen words,
but we can't be serious
in such spiritual matters,
so, we toss and tumble
on top of the words
and I feel
impending apocalypse ...
I'm losing you ...

slipping, sliding
your aromatic soap
on the tips of my fingers
nature's rosy spines
spires
raging pores open
curvaceous sweat
dripping from your hair,
on to my body,
you've got me whipped,
all you have to do
is spell it forty ways
to Friday.

It's that easy.
I'm that sleazy.

I talk a good game,
but I don't know shit,
I can be absolutely everything
and obsessively nothing -
Just like one, Charles P. Stanton,
illegitimate son of an Irish Lord
and a Dublin University graduate,
the richest man in Arizona;
drank blood,
ate fried rattlesnakes,
and fought Mountain Lions,
according to the 1892 Prescott newspaper.

his rule, short lived,
blown down by barrel one day
by Christeros Lucero
because good ol' Charlie
made a pass at his Sister

Make a pass at me, dirty boy,
Seduce me ...
dout the Light.

Every single demeaning,
degrading,
humiliating,
pathetic thing,
I'll do for you
and you'll do for me,
as part of The Drawing

The dirty, dirty,
dirty Drawing ...

Dementia, that filthy artist, traced in
permanent marker on your chest

And as we cry,
we'll stain

our  whore sheets

Raunchy Dark,
even,

black ...