BED OF FAILS

The Misfortune of having you all to myself
has Irony’s respect. Only games without masters
call Love “ Sensei “. And every one of them
thought Irony was Abe Vigoda 
sifting through the entrails of a Tuna Melt, at Morty Yang’s
looking for the cookie choking on a Bilingual Mobius strip
of impenetrable punchlines.
And always late to a funeral like The Good Gin. 

we slept on a bed of fails
and our lives as footstools on soap boxes began 
as only the best endings require 
before waiving the usual fee, and diving into the role
of a last time nobody knew was The Last Time.
chewing up the screen between the intimate strangers
calling all the shots on the set by telepathy 
like a betty davis that would never ever not help you 
if it helps to sniff glue 
or to hardly ever do
and then stop. 
or not.

yeh, We Got THAT betty davis.

we found the most corrosive script 
and mangled that baby with the camera obscura still rolling
And that guaranteed we had something to show the wolves at the door.
that would generate the buzz in the saw 
that you Can’t UnSee.
and what follows? 

anybody’s regret.

we slept in cots on the Lot, a lot.
but that was all in the papers that we rolled
to smoke the pot. in all the rags in Coolsville.
our collapsing star rising on page six
of a Charles Bukowski restraining order.
and as I recall, there was no catering -
for locations that devolved into gothic cathedrals 
that slept with your expectations to get the part.
and we didn’t know that was a thing.

But hey,
you made it hurt 
like you already
knew.

we flipped a coin to see who would yell “ Cut “ !

And then...

now it's all 
you do.