Teeth, Glass, and Ashtrays

by R.L. Elledge

On some days, I feel drawn and gray,
Like a destitute and dusty dissolute ashtray
Or a darling, plucked too soon
With handbags hanging heavy in her haggard face,
Holding her sin, while the devil does croon
Sibilant and sweet, keeps her in her place.

And on those days,
When I moodily peruse
The dusty shelves of my damaged recollection,
I revisit those nights,
Sleeping under bridges and smoking under street lights,
In the aftermath of the inevitable collision
Between the bastard and the beast
With defiant eyes and rictus grin
Stabbing at his thin lips and red, fat, pig face
I spat on his house,
his god,
His fat fucking face

And so,
he got to swinging
and she came down screaming
and he got to bullshitting
before I realized he’d swung
and I left,
and I waited,
and I left.

Then some days, I feel red
And fists start curling in my head
And further, callousing
Into a cocoon,
And further, coiling,
Into a rope
Which twists
Like a snake,
And hangs,
Like a sentence
And lingers,
Like love

And then its, Happy, Happy Fucking Birthday,
To you,
And a little blue pocketknife,
Too thin to be useful,
Too sharp to be harmless,
Sharp, sharp, so very sharp
Slicing,
Running rivulets and ruddy ribbons,
And it’s Happy, Happy Fucking Birthday,
To you.

And then, on other days, I feel dipped in black ink
And into my sin I’ll contentedly sink
With silver and gold, steel and leather,
Slithering, unfold, light as a feather,
A bastard on the brink, a deal with the Devil
Strolling casually through every Infernal level
And Purgatorial vice, a laugh like clattering dice
Grin dyed black with tar, spitting slivers of ice
And it’s cold, cold but I feel fine
The Devil’s pale blessing comes with the next line
And there’s blood in my boot, but I don’t feel shit
Stab or shoot, I’ve got my personal self-medication kit

With everything you’d ever want to feel
Or never feel again,
And every experience you’d ever wished to steal,
Or absolution from your sin.
Desperately needing selling snatching grabbing willing to lurk
With my teeth in the glass of a broken ashtray
Gums receding nose bleeding fingers ready to work
But it’s okay, cus someday
It won’t all be so fucked,
At least not in this way
So fuck it, see the sarge? Buck it
Theres glass between my teeth and ashes in my eyes
Doesn’t talk much but at least he never cries