Left Behind

she could have been
the last
one,

a long line of
pretty faces before hers.

broken
like the shell
of an almond,

my heart
tossed on a shelf
littered with empty shell casings.

she was a pistol
with a grip
to grab the substance of a man;

left for
dead in the carnage
of her passing.

kiss her for me
if you see her
and tell her where to find
me--

I'll be at the bar with nothing
but a
burned out,
hollowed soul.

©Gary Coker II, 2011

Good Husband

he's looking for the good life
he said:

"it's around this joint,
has to be"

and it's true, there
is a lot of

panty hose, eyeliner
lipstick and a sweet sweaty
smell that only a dime could make.

I told him that his wife
might not be too pleased
with his extracurricular activities

outside

the boundaries of a suburban
mini-van

this is what he told me:

"my mini-van has
lots of leg room"

There's no arguing that

so we bought another round and
his hopes became mine
in some drunken bond of brotherhood.

A Night In The Life

eyes burned
red
and
irritated,

bright like
a neon sign-

some rugged Jersey
street corner

whore
beating against the hard

landscape
of her life--dreams

snuffed
out.

a need

to get to the vein sensation--gone,

she's wasted

tuned out;

a trip while tripping,

stumbling,

rambling and mumbling

her next payment on pavement:

"thirty dollars."

that's her dream

her life on Jersey
concrete
and there's no
hope of getting out alive.

Update

This evening, I have submitted several new poems to Black-Listed Magazine, Gutter Eloquence and Word Riot.

I think these poems were some of my better work, so piss on 'em if they reject these masterpieces.

Now, where did I put that Vodka.

To My Admirer

you tell
me
that
I don't
write
"good"
so
excuse
me
while
I go splash
around
in a
fucking
well.

understand that
I don't
care to
impress
you,
with your
inability
to
write
at all;
recognize
my middle
finger
upraised to
impress
upon you
the importance
of my
final
words.

your rejection
only
fuels
the comedy
I'll write
for your
eulogy.

After The Funeral

I went to Johns
funeral last week and
it occurred to me that
Samantha, his wife, looked
damn fine in her black skirt.

I remember she tried to give me a tug
behind Johns old
Ford pickup once,
but he was alive then,
drunk as usual and passed out inside on the seat.

I pull myself away from my hardon long enough to hear
the preacher ask the crowd in front of him,
"does anyone have anything they'd like to say?"

At this point I figured I should say something,
he was my friend.

I stood up,
serious and stern faced:

"John, I almost fucked your wife
once, but you were alive then,
so I didn't."

I said it with tears in my eyes
and a lump in my throat:

"You're not alive now though, so I guess you won't
mind if I do fuck her after we blow this joint,
or she blows me, whichever comes first"

The gasp from the crowd
is audible and I can't stop the tears.

"Thanks for the memories, pal."

I sit back down,
feeling a little better about the whole affair.

North West Maple Street

I decided to take a trip
back to my childhood
spent on North West Maple
street

walkers patrol the frontlines
today.

Those were different times,
when cigarettes were cheap,
something like a buck fifty
and women dressed up like
broads in nursing homes.

Now it's cheap blow jobs,
something like a buck fifty.

Yeah, this place changed,
but it changed for the better;

women wear less clothing these days.

The Last Word

I'm half wasted from
smoke in my eyes
and the vodka tonics
I desperately drank at the bar;

met another dime this evening,
maybe a six, I'm too fucking drunk to know the difference

She's one of those girls that wears
shorts just long enough
to show men what they can
expect if she lets them get close enough-

she knows that's all we really want,
and she knows how to get us.

We make it back to her place
and she grabs
a bottle of gin waiting on the coffee table;

She does this a lot I guess,
but I'm too fucking drunk to care.

My cigarrette is just a cherry
by the time she grabs a couple glasses
and pours us a drink.

All I'm thinking about is how long ago did
she lose her cherry - yeah, I'm too fucking drunk to care.

She walks over to hand me my drink
and sits down,
in that special way that whores sit when they want to tease you:

"you'll have to touch my face
before you touch my flower"

she whispers into my ear.

I'm right surprised at that,
because I didn't expect anything romantic
before a quick and furious fuck in a strangers bed.

I'm too fucking drunk to care.