Six Poems from Songs From The Shooting Gallery

1319 Iris Circle #3
Another Failed Suicide
A Place by the Sea
A Serentity Prayer
What Kind of Love?
One Down, Four to Go

1319 IRIS CIRCLE #3

another final point had been reached:
another grief-silent 3 a.m.
she placed the gun under her chin
heavy with Xanax and heroin
and told me that this time, she fucking meant it

I screamed at her not to be so stupid
and to put the gun down for christ's sake
she looked at me with her pinned shell-shocked eyes
and conceded.

the things I had seen with this woman--
needles probing breasts for shrinking, retreating veins
cocaine induced grand mal seizures
and armies of cock swallowed for a balloon of dope or a rock

she handed me her father's handgun with a resigned sob
and I placed it back under the bookshelf

I smile sadly, in light of what came next
to think that I told her
If you can just hang on, things are bound to improve

she made me a liar, too--
the woman who dug the hole
IÕve been trying to write myself out of
ever since

ANOTHER FAILED SUICIDE

I wanted to thank you for saving my life
the night I considered throwing myself
from that midnight freeway overpass
onto the tarmac below

I considered the aftermath
how you would smugly assume
I did it for love of you
my ex-wife of three months,
when in reality I had been awake
for 5 nights smoking meth
and I just wanted the chatter
in my head
to stop, seeking

some kind of peace
or dreamless sleep

I stopped myself
because I didn't want to give my story to you:
make myself a footnote
to your own revisionist history

the truth is
it was never love, Christiane
just youth
stupidity
and the all-consuming hard-on
of a 19-year-old fool

A PLACE BY THE SEA

we had a place by the sea
briefly
put up in a $100 a month motel on the
outskirts of Venice Beach
by her sister
who was trying to ensure that her
heroin addicted bridesmaid would not vanish
before the big day

I remember the chaos of our cases
vomited out on the floor
like the aftermath of some terrible, silent
bomb

I remember the yellowing walls
and the bloodstains on the bed
and the sensation of my guts knotting
in fear throughout the day

I remember how my heart would leap
to a tinny, digital rendition of
"The Arrival Of The Queen Of Sheba"
meaning Pedro had finally returned
my call
and all I had to do now
was wheedle some more credit
for dope

it was here that I finally relented
and pawned my musical equipment
"No use to me now" I thought
and by that rational
if I could have got 20 bucks
for my cock
I'd have pawned that
too

I remember the sinking feeling
when I'd pick up the phone
and instead of Pedro
there was silence
then the slowly building
sobs of my
mother

I remember how empty if felt
when those vestiges of my old life
were gone
and how quickly
the 700 dollars it raised
vanished into my
bleeding
arms

and how-
even though I had not even looked
at that stuff in months
maybe even a year -
it's removal from my life
felt like the point
of no return had been
finally reached

A SERENITY PRAYER

what no one tells you in rehab
is that nothing changes-
nothing improves
when you remove heroin
from the equation
the same hate
the same fear
the same impotent
muted fury

I've read books
and attended meetings
and fucked myself bloody
but nothing works-

nothing makes me
as pure and holy
and peaceful and serene
as a hit of Mexican dope
and the only existence possible
is one of resignation
to my fate, to my
unceasing insanity

and I realize
I was sold a fairy tale
by slick used car salesmen
bearing bibles
weak coffee
and empty, politician smiles

WHAT KIND OF LOVE?

what kind of love is this?
I don't recognize if from books,
movies, poetry
or song

the Polaroid flash of my cock
in your mouth
the sight of a vibrator
buried in your ass - it

catches
in
my
throat

walking down brick lane
high on mushrooms
the faces of the crowds twisting us
into gales of hysterics

the sound of our laughter
bouncing from the cobbles like summer hailstones
opening up your window standing
out on the balcony, looking

down onto the crowds of Cheshire Street:
nobody has anywhere to go -
the whole city has stopped and
dances to our song today

this love sears the flesh from my bones
sets my hair ablaze
makes me scream; mad, joyful,
into the London night

you are my Jesus my heroin
my rock'n'roll my final release
and we burn wholes thru the ozone
with wide, beautiful, dilated eyes

ONE DOWN, FOUR TO GO

I remember exactly where I was
when they told us Princess Diana was dead:
passed out on the floor of a soho hotel
a crack pipe fashioned from a Tennets Super can
and some cigarette ash
sitting next to the sink

I emerged through
the treacle sea of Valium
and managed to catch the words
"Paris ... car crash ... severe injuries ..."

there was a girl there on the bed
drug fucked and naked
drooling on the pillow
and I looked at myself in the mirror-
my beautiful bare arms
as yet unblemished by tattoos and
layers of needle scars

and soon the streets of Kensington
became a mass grave, choked
with dead, rotting flowers
and ugly, cheap sentiment

I imagined Diana Spencer
impaled on the cock of Hitler
in some hideous seventh circle
smeared with shit and rancid pigs intestines
an obscenely huge rubber
plug up her asshole
fellating the first in a queue
of half dead lepers

and thought that maybe
there was some justice
in this world
after all

All poems © 2006 Tony O'Neill. All Rights Reserved.
May not be reprinted in whole or in part
without written consent from Burning Shore Press.