impoetry | Krista the Atomic Bomb

I caught Tommy SixDogs making out with an atomic bomb on the 89th of July, year 7 of Aunt June’s elementary school-laundromat and occasional notary public. And man, did she blow. The bomb, not Aunt June, Jesus. Him neither. The bomb was named Krista and ol’ Tommy did not stand, nor sit, near huddle in a corner a chance with Krista the Atomic Bomb. He didn’t care, ran right in, knowing the danger, knowing the outcome, tongue a lapping at the air like a dog at hot yoga.

You don’t warn them you know. There’s not point when I boy’s gotta die in a girl’s radiation blast because the Good Lord didn’t give boys any dollars nor cents when it comes to girls and...ope. There goes another. Rest in peace, my clueless, wild-tongued brethren.

It’s not better now. On Tuesday. Look at that bottle. Just look at it, 16.1700 liters of explosive, unregulated medicine sitting on the shelf. Tommy likes to suck on that too. Glug-ug-ugghhhhhhhuhhhhh. You can see him now, right? Please picture him here. A bit older now, shit, when did we get old, Tommy? Just gotta have that sweet medicine, fix everything, do the thing, twice at midnight, no need to beg, no need to shave, crank up Thunder Road, scratch any itch you can find because this is it, this is the shit that’s going to fix me drink. Boom. Addiction blows too.

Maybe if we prayed about it, the mystical ether-matter-god will fix it all for us, that nagging feeling in our belly that’s a hunger for only the most destructive vices. STARMAN! STARMAN, answer our call! She had a set of double d’s tuned to just the right station, a pink drink that was more gasoline than sweet, and she’s walking around as if Tommy’s not fresh out of rehab for drugs, sex, and Phillopino polka. Starman help us. We’re more like Bowie without the “B”. Shit, this song was supposed to rhyme, baybe.

I looked at her while it looked like she was lookin’ and me, and that was probably enough to send me to orbit and come back with a thumpin in my pumpin and then she did this thing I’ll never explain, something miraculous, and unpresident, she acknowledged me and it was on from there, we were off and running, this must be what love feels like, lady won’t you just make it all make it worth it, I think you might like it too, but what do I know, my name’s Billy Wylde and I’ll be here all night if you need a stamp or a charm, or a smirk with some smarm. I only go up, no sense in the down, if you’re looking for a ride, I’ve got a bote around the corner and if things don’t go well toss me in the river and make me think about every mistake I’ve ever made swearing to God that this torture must be love.