[stylist] Poem - "True Romance"

[William L Houts]

HI Bridgit,

Thank you dearly, as always.  I know this one is a hard read for various 
reasons, and not to everyone's taste.  However that might be, I 
appreciate the comments from you and Chris:  astute readers both, even 
(or especially) when the criticism pinches a little.  I am an egg, LOL.


--Bill







On 3/18/2014 12:35 PM, Bridgit Pollpeter wrote:
> Bill,
>
> I like your use of diction, and how you describe setting and people.
>
> Bridgit
>
> -----Original Message-----
> From: stylist [mailto:stylist-bounces at nfbnet.org] On Behalf Of William L
> Houts
> Sent: Tuesday, March 18, 2014 8:34 AM
> To: Writer's Division Mailing List
> Subject: [stylist] Poem - "True Romance"
>
>
>
>
> Hey Fellow Blinksters,
>
> I'm posting here one of my favorites. But I must tell you that it has
> some naughty language in it.  If naughty language upsets you, do not
> read this post, you'll cough and spill your tea.  Then you'll come to me
>
> all mad and tea-soaked and I'll have to pay for dry cleaning and take
> you out for martinis to get you settled again, and I don't like martinis
>
> very much, so then we'll be equal.  Just remember:  you've been warned!
>
>
>
> ---
>
>
> Dennis Hopper in TRUE ROMANCE
>
> "Do you know who I am, Mr. Whorley?I'm the Antichrist."--from True
> Romance
>
> The devil spoke of pantomimes,
>
> then smashed your nose:
>
> the fist came down like truth
>
> the ex-cop thinks how
>
> many times have I done that myself,
>
> fucked some bastard up for shitting me?
>
> The Sicilian is talking, the guys
>
> behind him are restless as wings,
>
> the fist comes down
>
> and it doesn't matter
>
> you're off the force for years
>
> alone someplace with your stupid dog.
>
> you knew someday he would come,
>
> the man with the fist, a mouth
>
> full of death.He says your boy
>
> has done some shit but it's you he means:
>
> (that raid, you shot that whore in the eye)
>
> You weren't so clear in your head
>
> those days, you sloshed
>
> like a bucket of spunk and rage; like the world
>
> was always kicking your face you spilled
>
> on your wife, that whore, the guys
>
> you fucked up alone in a chair.
>
> The floor of your heart was cold
>
> with piss and sterile light.
>
> Where is the boy? he asks.
>
> Your face all noble and stupid
>
> against him, he opens a mouth in your hand
>
> more eager for talk:he'll open others,
>
> one of them screaming a name, an L.A. address
>
> and your son will inherit this chair from you.
>
> You bum a smoke.The Sicilian is gracious,
>
> he thinks you'll talk; if you lie,
>
> he'll whittle you down to betrayal.
>
> When the cigarette's done, you tell
>
> the truth about the devil.
>
> It comes to you easy, like a paper
>
> and coffee from God, and your enemy's eyes
>
> burn wrath like oil when you read the news:
>
> How the Sicilian's a slave to history,
>
> the craven son of an ancient rape.
>
> You call him a nigger, fruitof Moorish pillage,
>
> glittering, dark and impotent.You call him an eggplant.
>
> Then your aria's over.
>
> The Sicilian can only kill you once.
>
> All laughing rage, he turns to load his gun.
>
> The coffee of God has gone
>
> through your guts and your son rides away.
>
> He came for information; you gave him
>
> another day to be something more
>
> than a drunk, some fucked up violent
>
> schmuck with a gun, a mouth full of death.
>
> The coffee of God is gone:
>
> and there's nothing for you
>
> but terror, a scared ex-cop,
>
> a hot seat cold with piss.
>
> You think of that girl your boy brought,
>
> how she kissed you goodbye.
>
> She wasn't a whore; she was nice.
>
> Maybe they'll make it together.
>
> Bound and enthroned, you wonder when
>
> did I ever serve and protect until now?
>
> When the devil's kiss opens
>
> your brain to the last page
>
> you read there:
>
> this is what it meansto be a king.
>
>
>
>
>
>
>
>
>
>
>
>
>


-- 
"Let's drink a toast now to who we really are."

           --Jane Siberry