Three Years ago By Rp Verlaine

Was it waitressing? 
Metaphor, coming closer  
to her meaning... 
net stocking legs 
spread wide 
when I paid the bill. 
Or worse— was I just being 
serviced? 
 
The answering machine 
spit out the evidence 
without giving a fuck. 
She was ready 
for her closeup. 
Her last message said 
that she'd gone to L.A. 
to be an actress, 
but now I know 
she meant asterisk. 
 
6 months later: 

on the strip she meets 
a pharmaceutical survivor 
who slipped, and is now pushing 
illegal powders in glycine. 
 
Watching pachucos 
drag evil 
machines, 
he talks to her, 
seeing her flesh tattooed new 
but flesh still clean 
he says ‟actress, 
you‵ll get old here, 
or disappear 
in a third-rate chorus line 
with every verse queer. 
 
“Actress take this...‶ 
The pimp says ‟actress, porn 
films are the new art form 
take this... take this‶ 
the pimp says ‟Actress 
take this.” 
 
3 months later: 

she ties black belt to her arm 
in the bathroom of a rented club. 
 
Cool jazz music pulses inside 
as the hypodermic 
slides in before the 
camera cuts. 
 
The music 
doesn‵t stop as the actor 
enters in her and the camera cuts, 
but all she sees 
is her blood 
'til the rush 
when the hypodermic 
slides in. 
 
A year later: 
 
men dodge rain  
into peep show heaven, 
slamming quarters to see 
videos, see her  
repeat disintegration, 
repeat fade to black. 
 
While outside, her eyes scan 
cars, L.A. police cruisers she‵s been 
behind bars in topless, nude 
as police patrol heresies 
from the dreams of its gutter evacuees 
her soul‵s devoid of magic 
she‵s turning tricks 
not quickly enough 
the pimp‵s rear view sees. 
 
Even later: 
 
Baby, I never wanted this poem, 
baby I never wanted this 
poem, yours. 
But nobody called off  
the drug assassins, who fed your flesh 
to the creditors or the cheap heretics 
who celebrated mass by creating 
their own, worshiping you. 
 
'Til your blood 
was cheaper than the wine 
and every derelict pissed 
a thousand stray trails 
that all led back to you. 
 
Today: 
 
police says 
‟Did you know this O.D.?‶ 
to pimp or dealer on strip. 
 
His eyes glow dark  
as the coat hanger marks 
her corpse detailed. 
 
‟Don‵t know the bitch” 
voice trails like 
samurai 
too evil to die. 
 
‟Don‵t know the bitch‶ 
says ‟No, No, No.‶ 
 
And I say 
No, neither  
did I. 
 



Rp Verlaine, a retired English teacher living in New York City, has an MFA in creative writing from City College. He has several collections of poetry including Femme Fatales Movie Starlets & Rockers (2018) and Lies From The Autobiography 1-3 (2018-2020).

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