RC Edrington

 

Virginia City, NV

the blood stains
on the barstool
are real
claims the jerky-skinned
cowboy perched like
a vulture on the bar,
who's wasted
way too many years
in 100 degree sun
sucking the last drop
of life spit
from a calcified bone

"this aint no tourist town,
like that damn
Tombstone Arizona,"
he spits between sips
of Early Times,

"fact Sam Clemens
used to park his lazy ass
on the same damn stool
you're sittin' on boy...
you know, Mark Twain
before he got run
out of town...
what a trouble makin'
son of a bitch he was

used to write
for the newspaper,
used to make up
all kinds of rumors
about who was sleepin'
with whose wife
and the like,
then once the seed
was planted it began
to fester like
an old saddle sore
and Clemens loved
to watch the gun
and fistfights
he instigated

this town still don't care
much for writers
since Clemens got run...
so what you do boy,"

he asks pouring another
shot of his gut-rot whiskey

drink mostly
I tell him,
as I blow smoke towards
the barkeep whose tits
scrape the bar
like some busted up
milk cow ready
for the grinder,
I mainly drink
and I sure as hell aint
no boy you old fuck

"well boy, I knew
when you drunk stumbled
in your meter was rung
with too many booze miles,
and a ton of useless words
coursing through your head...
so take off those damn
props of sunglasses
and tell me
how long you been a writer, boy
and just how long
you plan to stay?"

 

Unbroken

If I had a dime
for every dish daddy
splattered like a
defective clay pigeon
into the kitchen wall
and a dollar for
every bruise
that eclipsed momma's
sad blue eyes like
some dark, dying star
and maybe
a nickle
here and there
for every childhood
bone splintered like
a rotted bamboo shoot
in daddy's drunken
Vietnam enraged hands

I'd be a millionaire
getting my cock honed
by 18 year old
coke whores in some
ghost tainted mansion
on that Beverley Hill
where loyalty is metered
by the powdery white
prison bars that cut
a mirror no one ever
bothers to gaze
too deeply into
and not this

semi-reformed
heroin feind laying
next to you, Marie
biding my time
between your breasts
and the steady
blood rhythm
of your heartbeat
with a notebook full
of paper promises,
IOU's for love
drawn on the failed
bank of poetry
waiting,
sweet Marie
always waiting
for your lips
to find me
in the wide expanse
of this dream where
like a wild Mustang
I buck free
of daddy's reins

 

Cutter

my beauty is only
skin deep
my daddy told me so
she whispers
between sobs
as she slowly
carves
a long-stem rose
into the soft
pale flesh
of her lightly
freckled forearm
with my freshly honed
Italian stiletto
her blood
blooms into tiny
red petals
in the dark ages
she whispers
doctors bled
the sick
so the illness
seeped out but
millions still died
of God's Black Plague
how deeply do you
think I must carve
until this disease
that corrodes my heart
oozes to the surface
and you
like all those
silly men before
run from the madness
daddy injected into
his 13 year old
baby girl


RC Edrington
books
          RC Edrington currently prides himself in being a bum, and long ago gave up the 9 to 5 slave cycle. He currently writes, paints, drinks, and spends long hours hunched over a pool table. Writing "poetry" for the last 10 years, he has only recently mustered the stamina required to send his stuff out for publication. I publish a monthly 1 page ezine called "Spent Meat" I am always accepting submissions of poetry, short stories, reviews and artwork.
* My chapbook that was due out this summer by Sisyphus Press has been abducted by the editor and will now appear in very cool new anthology produced by "The Bukowski Hangover Project".
* "Flesh Wounds", a collection of my early crap is due out in September. It will be a perfect bound thing with cover art by yours truly, and advanced orders can be placed at my site.
* A four part in-depth interview with my bloated ego is finished and can be found at babelmagazine.com. Topics range from the current state of the small press to UFO's and other weird shit from a booze addled mind.

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