Linda Kleinbub

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