Undercover

by fabian cortez

A stinking acrid fug

Clung to walls of peeling

Yellow gold paint,

In a bar clawing with

Conspiracy & intrigue

As black as coal-pit

Lungs

-

I’d imbued myself so

Well to every aspect

Of my work that

Guilt had almost

Taken hold

-

Until the

“Fuck You”

Spat a bullet’s coat

Now clotted

Red across the bar,

She’d a moment

To wish she’d not

Retorted

-

“Cocksucker” she said,

Something she won’t

Be doing now on

-

Now each thorn-less

Rose is décor to these

Thorns, once apparelled

High, to society’s

Vacillating hearts

-

Presiding once in

Loathing & deepest

Fear now, in the earthen floor

Of this yard, bejewelled

With blossom

-

Beer so crisp & cool

Is all the appeal

Required

To revisit this

Stinking place

So strangely

Serene

-

I place my identity

In the glove box

Wander in & order

An ice cold beer

Before going out

Back & pissing on the

Roses

©copyright 2006 fabiancortez