Jackson Pollack’s New York

This is what happens. Every time. Smash. Bang. Not my kisser. Some poor sucker’s kisser. Blood all over my shirt and pants. I remembered Susie. One of these days she’d pull the trigger. A shower of brains. All over the wall. There was a big bump on my head. Owwww. She fingered the gun. In her purse. I heard screaming. There were four guys. They got up from the table. Hitting the concrete. One of these days she’d pull it out. Yelling at each other. They had been playing cards. Someone must have cheated. Susie let him hit her. Whammo. I came to Nurse Betty for the burlesque. Not the Violence. Never the violence. I woke up in an alley. That would teach him. The smell of death filled the room. That is all I remembered. She couldn’t hide her look of disgust. She didn’t even try to hide the bruises. The welts. I was sitting at the bar. My back was to the room. Off Franklin Place. She knew she had it coming. This past Wednesday night, violence was what I got. I remembered tying off and shooting up. She’d kill the fucker. I watched the body fall. Thud. She’d been a whore and she’d lied. All her life. Bam. Right in the kisser. The needle was still in my arm. He pulled out a gun. Shoved it against another guy’s head. Kablooey. I remembered doing the deed. One of these days she’d use it. A rat was sniffing my face. She’d given up. A kisser that would never be kissed again.

Artwork by Jackson Pollack.

Image property of the Albright-Knox Art Gallery, Buffalo, NY.

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