technicolor goodbye

 

this isn’t a noir film
this isn’t pretty
or glamorous
it’s gritty and dour and grim
saying goodbye at the train station
looks so pretty on a postcard
steam and smoke billowing artfully
men in fedoras
women in gloves
but when it’s technicolor
and it’s us
it’s heart-ripping, soul-trampling
bright fluorescent lights pierce
gaudy grime covers the train
the people on the platform
look like Van Gogh’s peasants
it’s all too sad
and I so want to play it cool
I have no cigarette to flick
you have no witty iconic statement
there’s no swelling music
just a plaintive
“don’t go”
that I keep to myself
but that you read in my eyes

glimpses

 

languidly reaching
tiredly murmuring
secret smiles
words left unsaid
there’s no need to speak
when glimpses behind closed eyes
flicker like an old projector
replaying memories
like noir scenes
where the broad gives the tired gumshoe the what-for
but senses betray
when you awake
all alone

Dirty Jazz

 

In the slim lines of long shadows he walked, hearing his own heel-toe echo off the pavement. He put his hands in his trouser pockets, slowing his pace slightly. He breathed deeply after a bus had passed, belching hot gusts of diesel exhaust into the night air. The street-lamps flickered slightly. His shadow turned menacing for a moment then back to its sloping gait. There were no stars to be seen in the heavy night air. The gloom had the taste of bourbon and magnolia. He walked without much thought. Only wanting his rooms. His bed. Some quiet place where feeling alone was not so glaring.

The thought of the small dingy room did not elevate his mood so he turned at the next corner, pushing the door open to the dark club that always had dirty jazz emanating from within. He did not hesitate but sat at the farthest, darkest end of the bar. He stared at the amber liquid in his glass, wishing it did not look so much like the blood he had just washed from his hands earlier.

Swirling the drink around did not help erase the visual of writhing in blood on the floor. So he tossed back the vile drink quickly and enjoyed the burn as it went down. He wondered how long it would take for this body to be found. The last two had not yet been discovered. He was getting better at his job. He knew statistically, his time was limited. It was not a moral issue, but a game of numbers. Only so many untraceable weapons, so many contracts, so many dump sites. Then he would have to move on. Again. Another city. A different dark corner of a bar. Another dingy room to lay his head.

The saxophone wailed like the dying man. The light tap on the snare echoed his sluggish heartbeat. The piano player brushed his fingers playing a melody sounding of heartache and moonlight. Disgusted, he pushed away from the bar but stopped at the sight of a couple dancing. He lit a cigarette as he watched. They moved too slowly for the
music. His hands were low on her back;
hers twined around his neck. They did not speak. Their dusky skin blended together as one moving animal. There was no envy; he did not want for company. But it had been too long since he’d felt any softness or comfort. You couldn’t be a cold killer and need soft comfort. Too jarring for any sensibilities.

He walked out into the sultry night, feeling more than hearing his footsteps. He turned into an alley, looking for reprieve from the light. He wasn’t worried about running into a thug. He was dressed in a suit but he was the bad element. People would be afraid of him if they knew the dark that he harbored.

He felt himself relax in the grimy alley. The concrete walls were sweating. He stepped around overturned garbage cans. Feral cats fought nearby. As he neared his motel, the skies opened and it began to rain. When he got to his room, he left the light off and sat in the one chair he had. He enjoyed the sound of the rain. It would clean the alleys and streets, at least for one night.