Monday, January 23, 2012

And I'll fall for her like an anvil through greased air

Noir sonnets: The Dame

She’s beautiful the way a knife is sharp.
   She makes me drunker than a fifth of scotch.
One smile and she can play me like a harp.
   Her heart’s a gun, and I’m the latest notch.
There’s nothing that’s beneath her or above her.
   She’s silk and silver, with a soul of sludge.
When she says “I” she means her and her lover;
   When she says “We” she means her and her grudge.
She’ll screw me till my life’s totally effed--
   She’ll say "I'll always love you" to my face--
Then hit the road and make me think I left
   (But keep the door cracked open just in case).
      She’ll find a way to make me hers for life,
      Then stab me so I never feel the knife.

Copyright 2012 Matthew J Wells

1 comment:

Molly Lyons said...

Ouch. It's a bit like the Irish saying, "their gift of gab is so eloquent, they can insult you while you think you're being flattered."