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:
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."
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