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LIPS

Scott A. Russell

Crooked curling around
a Camel non-filter

a lurid smear of
high gloss crimson

whose ghost haunts the rim
of an empty old-fashioned-

I can hear you from here,
telling me what I need,
how long I have forgotten

(and I know)
you can help me.

Appeal to my prurient interest
babe, drink and smoke and swear.
Sizzle like neon in a fog.

Remind me of how life
reeks of scotch and perfume,
spills its smiling blood
about cigarette butts and barware,

advances quietly laughing,
scarlet from hip to hip.

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