55 Duncan Street / Saturday Night

As in,
Where we reinvented rock n roll.
Cocaine in the kitchen, tacones and tipsy, whiskey sour burning throat,
stovetop tacos, girl on girl,
Cigarettes cycling, hand mouth relighting,
Rolling, hitting, pushing, pulling,
Fast cars, no money, a zombie asking to give some joker a blowie in my bedroom
A sea of faces I’ve never seen angsty, on edge, blowing off smoke in blow in the bathroom Beer in the fridge, bottles and shots and eyeliner and strappy black bands biting into flesh I guess this is sorta what they meant when they said college.

Downstairs there’s smoke lingering in the lemon trees The girls are shivering in their skinny bare knees.

We’re sovereign in this game, subdued, Aloof, detached,
composed composers of a fanatic jam Paintings and portraits, nude walls and three chairs.

Oldies, punk, rap, or reggaeton depending on the crowd though come morning I’ll be slippers sliding on, blasting Louis and Ella and Duke and Billie
Two dudes passed out on the sofa, reminiscing last night or last Friday, Saturday, we always got the jive
That Mexican spice they craved,
That black clothes cool,
That untouchable sadness that makes one god among artists.

The light’s slanting between blind slats And the trash cans are spilling over, glass and cans, a little puke and a lost tortilla.

Something juicy is slick on the floor the counters are sticky, sink greasy eyelids heavy
steady now.

Downstairs there’s smoke lingering in the lemon trees The girls are shivering in their skinny bare knees.

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