Happy Bad Monday and welcome to “Bad Poetry Monday.”
It’s a new week. A new day. Let’s get ‘er done. To kickstart your Monday on a lighter note, here’s a new bad poem to make your day. Although, this one is a tad on the darker side, from my collection of yet to be published noir poetry, seasoned with a dash of quirk and dark.
By the time I make Wichita by Z.J. Czupor
By the time I make Wichita,
The sun will rise in glory behind me,
Unfurling golden ribbons along the Arkansas River,
And Judy will have called the cops.
After a long night of stripping at the Red Slipper,
She would've trudged home, heated a pot for tea,
And screamed bloody murder,
Finding Bad Sal Lucchesi rancid and dead in their bed.
His thick neck slit ear-to-ear like a double grin, smiling at the devil.
His eyes dull as a rusty flashlight. His hands missing.
The cops will sit her in the kitchen, offer her coffee,
But she'll decline and rest her head in her hands.
By the time I make Oklahoma,
Judy's house will be fenced in with yellow crime tape,
Grim cops and joking detectives will gawk at the blood-soaked sheets,
Breathless reporters with flashing white teeth go live at noon.
Bad Sal was a button man for the mob—and a brute.
He cackled like a hyena when he abused Judy,
Leaving her with blue bruises the size of a size-10 shoe.
His final sin was stupidity. I knifed him in the front.
By the time I make Dallas,
The mob will have contracted with a hit man,
Seeking me out with method, malice, and maybe a machine gun,
Hunting for me, like a deer, before I disappear.
But I don't care. I got Sal's offshore accounts,
And his Black Book with names and numbers,
I fear no evil, for I own the shadows and the valley, dammit,
When I call, the Boys in Blue will hand out their own set of bruises.
When I make Acapulco,
I'll text Judy, "We made the onion cry."
She knows where to meet. This was personal, dammit.
I'd do anything for my identical twin sister. Anything.
👏🏻👏🏻
Love it - a novel in short form!