Until Tomorrow

Two dead women
in an alley.

The killer!
Earned nineteen slugs
to the chest and neck,
dying theatrical, around 10pm.

Paltry return,

burned,

by swan songs from Sam, poor thing,
disintegrating in the ladies room,
suffering the torment of men in short penises,
one of four selfish bitches leeching my patience dry.

Just another egg,
hatching cops courting thugs, with phrases, such as ‘you may go’,
instead of bust a cap, a sadness only lap-dances at the Bada Bing
with trigger-happy vixens packing heat and street-cred can heal.

Accursed, no boobs in this neighbourhood either;
they’re in the E.R, cowering,
under white coats teasing regret,
at the behest of screened women with axes to grind.

So I’m left with Batman,

who’ll kill no-one but kick enough ass to ease my dissatisfaction
until tomorrow, when my HBO code rolls up, with a full magazine.

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