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The Reaper Only Rings Once
by sean kemble
It was midnight on Lovers Lane
and Bobbi Jo had just killed someone
With her daddy's Chevy convertible.
It made her tingle.
It made her giggle
because she knew she'd gotten away with it.
She lit a cigarette
and started to crave chocolate.
Bobbi had been stopped nineteen times
for traffic infractions and
not once incurred a ticket.
Babydolls and money
own the world and
Bobbi Jo was possessed by both.
 
I drew her
black and white
no color
simple yet cunning
More real
Visceral and brusque
A liar
An expert
Laughing like old movie
glamour girls
A slow dance with red nails
down my back
Playing a dog
Dying for free
shot
  
On Sunday I was dead
Under an oak tree
In three pieces I lie
Above me, a plywood cross
Marking each body part:
Super ego ego id
Torso and arms pelvis and legs head
I saw it coming, alas, I couldn't hear.
Because...
 
"Where their worm dieth not, and the fire is not quenched." Mark 9:48
THE END
I'm a fan of film noir. I wrote this awhile back. I only excerpted parts to make an outline of the story here. It's partly a parody of the lurid pulp fiction of the mid twentieth century. The title is a variation on the classic film "The Postman Always Rings Twice." The girl is an artist named Alli... I altered four of her photos to fit into the context of my prose. The background music is Phillip Glass with Buddhist monks, from his album Kundun. I love his minimalist style... It's to die for... ha.
Dedicated to Heather, my favorite femme fatale...je t'aime, my sexy sociopath.
Copyright (c) 2005 Sean Kemble All rights reserved.. | 
