Memory of a Party Girl

The same things that dragged her under,

tempted her back up again.

Though tortured

by their skilled caresses,

her face split from ear to ear.

Prettiness cracked in two;

wide smile lips,

red blood make-up,

concealing jagged teeth,

made brutal for the love that lingered.


She said his fists loved her;

that his heart was not in his chest,

but burned in a glass vial,

fit only for emotional desecration.

So she would not abandon

dark alley stains

that ripped designer pantyhose.

Threadbare sanity worn thin

by rubbing up too close

against the grating skin

of lizard lovers;



three times too often.


Baby black top

and the same jeans;

bring the simple, morning routine.

Some are just junk,

but some make the day

go further.


Never been a diamond ring girl,

but a life of the party,

down for whatever.

Never thought about seeing her 30’s,

never mind 40’s

and that red blood lip

smashed holocaust smile,

murdered more

than 12 gauge blowjobs

and never left a mess;

just a slow, twisting rot.

The long, funeral foreboding

That makes bad jokes funny.



Biological clocks come

more than a lover these days

and there’s a haze in her eyes

that wasn’t there before.

Like she’s locked away,

far off distant shore.

No longer gutter rabbit warren,

dumpster clothes

and petty, two-faced bitch fights;

she is long gone.


Those broken smiles

never shine anymore

and that smoky eye

is a permanent bruise.

More often than not now,

I see her looking long

and far off into the Valley,

for there is no life left in her.

Her ghost is gone,

having abandoned her

long ago

with the rest of them.


HG – 2017


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