| LOU GOODWIN |
AUTUMN Dec 2007 In yellow leaves, you lay laughing, pink from the morning chill. Leaves swirl about you-- obsessed golden moths fluttering about your clothes; loving the light of you. I know my winter is coming; full of cold, gray ashes, sleeping earth. But you are so beautiful, so bright. You make this last harvest, sweetly divine. Heaven, I believe-- will be a memory of you, rolling with childish glee among the dying autumn leaves. December 2007 |
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Red Pulp Underground
| EDEN'S PRISION Dec 2007 If I could have loved you... I would have been your Eve, lavished you in harvest apples, tempted you with willing flesh. I’d have clipped the damn coupons, shopped with your idiot sister, agreed with your misinformed mother, and we would have danced-- wild, dirty salsa dancing, laughing while we fooled around in the rain. But we fell apart-- puddled in the street like melted rainbows, the colors all muddied with ordinary life. Instead of loving you, I crave the reptilian beauty of the snake. It’s the walls of my safe garden I hate. December 2007 |
| Copyright 2007 Red Pulp Underground |
| Jazz makes me want to leave you. It makes me all itchy and certain that I need to be somewhere, anywhere else. Tonight it's Love for Sale by Wilber. Isn’t that fitting? And when I play Groover, you know better than to put your hands on me. It’s for dancing alone. They say Jazz is the music of sadness, of love, of sex. Yes, I suppose they're right but it's not your music. It’s not talking to you. Listen to that horn sing. Listen to it blow holes in your bullshit. I’m shadow dancing and I feel alive again. Really alive and then I see you there …like a man with a roll of quarters at a peep show, watching me. Leave me be. The piano is crying for me …the horn, the horn is howling and I want to drink my music like scotch and wait for the night to die. Your hands try to pull me close but the notes pull me away, hold me away from you. I’m singing deep and soft. I feel beautiful--powerful. Jazz loves me. It tingles like a wire between my thighs and yet it's tender. Loving me not using me. It rolls with me. You scowl but don’t look away. I’m laughing at you, rocking my hips to the sensual back beat. I feel your lust like an open oven but it doesn’t mean anything. You don’t mean anything. Jazz has me against the wall, in the air. The horn is curved and strong under my hand. If I listen hard enough, I can ride the notes to the stars. Powder myself with stardust until I shine too bright, until I blind. Then, I’ll be above your touch. Music lifts me higher. I’m flying free. Then, you turn off the radio and I can hear only your breathing and mine. I smell your need and there isn’t any place for me. No place at all for me. I’m deflated, ordinary and hung-over from its lost wonder. Then, and only then, do I let you pull me close. You pull me into your oven and burn me to a crisp. Yet, I dream of that cool Jazz. December 2007 |
Inside I was all slick tin and polished corners rusting at the fingertips, dripping saltwater. I remember the feel of your eyelashes licking the backs of my knees- back when I felt everything. When I loved and hated, Lusted, destroyed, created. But you wanted me to love you like an incestuous sister loves her brother. Silent hidden under cheap cotton covers. In broom closets smelling like bleach, in basements, behind barred bedroom doors. In these dark sweaty rooms, your hands found me, loved me, ruined me. My body’s rusted tin inside, Hollowed, wet, slick. You used up all my love And now I'm a heartless bitch. December 2007 |