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“When Hell Freezes Over”
He said, “One last kiss for my soul?”
as he lay supine life spilling onto his Last Sunset Road.
The sun had set long long ago.
She lent down, whispered in his ear
Cherry Ripe Red Lips
her warm breath
close and near, like a
feather down his neck,
“Wait, did you hear that?
he said, I’ll bet my life on that.”
She coos like a Dove. She stands.
He is aware of his predicament, although at the time
he had considered it the best of well "laid" plans.
Over head, Poe’s bats
like tiny sharp-fanged
flutter away in formations
like her pistol grip, tight -
he hears her laugh,
The Black Swan.
It is a Bill Henson
blue mood moody night
grey-green smoky mist
in a midnight blue black
billowing black pearl sky
Moon the colour of hell fire,
She throws him a kiss
with a killer’s smile.
Somewhere a feral cat
screams in petulant heat,
the rattlesnake hisses, it
slides over his feet,
leaving no tracks as the
blistering bitumen sizzles
he wipes his brow sanguine
deus ex machina
Somewhere the Lotus Eaters at Loon Junction
are in a Casino dancing bare feet
chewing the fat and playing Black Jack -
His game was Russian Roulette
He liked to drink his Wild Turkey Bourbon no ice neat.
He looks up at her,
long legs like a fan dancer at Flamingos
straddle him, billowing skirt
in the summer breeze,
flirtatiously nude a Beige shade of satin flirts
a glimpse of something sweet,
her eyes flash like fast darts
cold buttons over bullets that burn
he can smell her perfume
some kind of intoxicating chloroform,
"Kalypso" it's called,
while the knife heel of her sharp stiletto
crushes on the glowing embers of
his dying cigarette, a silent metronome
in his addled mind counts idle moments,
through lost time he reflects,
if only they'd stopped for that coffee break
at the Cross Road instead of taking that wrong turn
where Crazy River meets Broken Neck.
He said, “When Hell Freezes Over.”
She said, “Baby, I’m the Snow Queen, don’t you know?”
Kneeling before him, long fingers stroke his chin,
trace the line of his lips,
she draws him in, hot and slow,
“Closer, come, take a look through my open windows”.
(Something wicked this way comes, oh what a tangled web we weave).
Robbie Robertson, Crazy River
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