At the Chelsea
The cover band plays Blurred Lines
beer is cold
skin is tan
far away, my mind writes our story
I’m Nancy Spungen
we grunge around rat-infested subway cars
from CBGB to The Bitter End
we room at The Chelsea
you’re crazy man, Sid Vicious
already killing me
still, I open the door
and let you in
Sex Pistol
Some people think gothic means black
the lovers separated
need a good fuck
a hand is out of reach
a dildo can soothe
without warmth, pulse, or heartbeat
Cover Charge
Broken souls gather
buy the two-drink minimum,
look for romantic remedies.
Your advice was
Don’t write about life
write about art.
I say, Paint me black
splatter your pigment
on my wedding dress.
You’re a beer-soaked barroom,
I’m an engagement ring
lost on the floor.
You’re a smudged Keith Haring drawing.
I’m a boombox missing a beat.
Your kisses were jewels,
dope bought on the Lower East Side.
We crawl out of abandoned squats,
you say you speak fiction-
your heart is exposed,
I tell true stories,
you are forewarned.
–Linda Kleinbub
Poetry