22

Tyrone Electric

your mom,
fumbled for her keys
glass eyed,
crown royal
mad

her behind
crooked
as she sidled into
her second hand
Lexus

we both turned
up the television
abruptly the
previous night.
awkward
banging for
us to relent

she was banging
alright
it took
a little maturity
to collectively
gross out on that
tale as
the silver knob
thumped on our pulse
from Thundercats
to Robot Chicken

you sat there
as she rolled
down her window

we’ll observe
these next words
of hers
for years

you’re one
mother fucker
that time don’t
affect you’re a
s
s

I love you Tyrone
Electric. you’re
full of remember
when

every track on a Cure album
is meaningful to you

we could sit
in front of your bus
parked in the graveyard
and time could make love
to each ancient tombstone
before you’d budge
an inch

God, Tyrone
you’re a time machine
I want to grab your beard
and
spring from this
linear equation

that speck of
white food forever
lodged
in your wiry
curls
is
the Moon

the one that
comes out
on holy nights.

inspiring long dead poets

and new.

By w.alt burns

Walt Burns is a freelance individual writing out of the city of
Fort Worth Texas. Much of the torture in his poetry comes
from living there. Previous publications include: Venereal
Kittens and various blogs across the net. He is also the
co–owner of the worlds smallest radio station: KARR FM.
Playing underground music and funky beats on the streets
of Dallas and Fort Worth Texas.