Psycho Chick

 

 

I was off stage for less than a minute

when she appeared from the club’s dark corner,

 

the psycho chick

 

She grabbed my lapels,

bit earlobes, whispered stories

of Helen of Troy, rollerblading

and the joy of duct tape

 

We made our way toward the bar

drank Grand Marnier

sucked face, necks and fingers for a while,

went to the car, steamed up windows,

bloodied up the dashboard

and kissed goodbye

 

Three days later

I committed the horrible crime

of calling her back

for more duct tape

and more dirty Helen of Troy

 

I told her she was a nice girl,

that I enjoyed her company,

after cutting through the small talk,

we agreed to meet again

 

me and the psycho chick

 

I took her to see a country western band,

bought drinks and lit her cigarettes

we were the perfect couple,

men tipped their hats,

women smiled with approval

 

But it wasn’t too long

before the psycho chick

began to laugh wildly,

flicking cigarette butts

at the band as they played

Loretta Lynn, Johnny Cash

 

I told her it wasn’t polite,

for they’ll take it as an act of disrespect

and start trouble with me,

because in the south, when a woman insults a man,

they beat the boyfriend up

 

She rolled her eyes,

lit another smoke

and told me I was pathetic

 

she reached toward my middle

and slowly squeezed

until I was blue in the face

 

then, from under her skirt,

she pulled out a switchblade

and began to cut me

 

First my fingers,

then my eyes, and the rest of me

in thirty seconds it was all over

there I lay, a pathetic pile of man-bits

 

she rubbed her palms

clicked her heels

and crept back into the club’s dark corner

 

The band finished, the singer bowed

then he slowly moved toward the club’s dark corner

oblivious to the impending doom

awaiting him in the form of

 

the psycho chick

 

 

 

 copyright, Frank Messina, 2002

 

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