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No Villains, No Heroes

This is the sanctuary of early 90's anti-abstinence,
all alcoholic bed covers, a tiny cavern made from 300-
thread count sheets for long tangled legs; some pale brown,
some blue-white with Irish blood.  It's serene, it's dangerous
although he's oblivious and she's just too desperate for some
kind of presence, in love with his attention as much as the boy
himself.  It's a story you've heard before, but maybe not with
as much startling devotion, as much destruction.  It's the story
of the century, the one the papers wouldn't touch--he's photogenic,
but she's got the tendency to steal the scene--and your wallet.
 
It's what he wrote all those songs about, before she propped her
scary sharp-heeled stilettos on his lap on Christmas Eve, it's what
he was feigning in hopes it would appear.  It's what she never wanted,
living off of hotel rooms and written verse.  You know what it is.
 
It's the divinely poised crook of his knee,
fitting neatly, with that astonishing sincerity and symmetry
of boy-meets-girl, into the warm familiarity of her bruised
inner thigh.  The slow burn of his short nails and rough
guitar-picked fingertips with perfect subtle pressure across
the smooth compliance of her upper ribs, down to the fleshy
softness directly above a hard-cut rose petal-shaped hip.
The tangle of his hair, artificially atramentous, clouding the
chipped red polish and ever-searching feminine piano hands.
It's the way he can allineate his hips with hers in a heartbeat,
no hesitation and no uncertainty.  It's the painful panicked need
in her eyes blazed with black mascara and misused pink lipstick
as she watches him fall asleep with his head in her lap, the
stern column of her spine aligned with an empty opium white wall.
It's the excruciating sweetness with which he picks her up again
from the bathroom floor, her body a limp kingdom where she's given
him free princely reign, its curved contours lined with white juices
and dollar store epiphanies, veins slaughtered but lovely.
 
It's the way the nights go, always the same: yin and yang,
a flesh toned mime of that famous sketch--two faces, aligned.
It's what we watch movies for, what we paint and dream and
sing and live and die for.  It's a common disease.
 
You know what it is, and you know how it'll end.