Emerald Cones on the Forty-Five

There was the sudden smell of perfume I think

Only young girls wear, and too much at that,

slapping into the rain’s mist on the wood plastic panelling.

The town was cold, and lonely, obviously.

It was night and a hot meal really felt like something.

She wore a crystal rose

But I saw revealing clothes

She lied about her name

But I knew it all the same

She didn’t know I had a limp from bad memories

I’d spent most of my time on a farm with goats

sleeping in a teepee surrounded by forestry

I’d grown a beard

I hadn’t showered or washed my hands

I’d been sleeping in a rotten hammock

Cooking boar’s meat over a fire I built

I was slouching and drinking out of the corner of my mouth

A taste burned my throat

Up n down and all around

My teeth felt crooked

There were blurred crows on her grey cardigan

She asked what I was writing.

I said they were great poems

about eating pussy and the end of the world

A breeze came by that smelled like farts

She said that’s a start

I said thanks and looked at her smooth, bare flanks

“I left my husband and tried to kill my baby

It weren’t born right and couldn’t save me

From how much he hated me”

I said that’s nice, another broken heart

She moved her legs under the table so I couldn’t see

I imagined sliding between her legs and squeezing her hips

She said I try not to be too sad, and I looked at her lips

They were wet and pinkish brown

It was an unnatural colour for a smile

I told her what she said was a lie

“You’ve never even left this town”

She called me a fucking clown

I asked her why she sat down, did I seem inviting?

She grabbed a poem but couldn’t make out the writing

I wanted to suck on her tongue

And wondered when the time would be right

She was dressed for a big wet night

I knew I’d fuck her and leave her somewhere

My last words would be “It’s fun to be young”

She asked what my new one was called

As if it mattered at all

Green Cones on the Forty-Five

She said why

“It’s the road number and the pine trees”

She told me in an offhand way “forget green.

No one will care. No one. Call ‘em Emerald”

Then we got drunk on Polish vodka

and things went bad


5 thoughts on “Emerald Cones on the Forty-Five”

  1. Is your atrocious spelling supposed to be irony? Or is it that you can’t spell? Either way you look desperate. And no I won’t send you a nude picture of myself. You see I am not into unemployed middle aged virgins…

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