If I were Brad Pitt
with a T-bone edge
a lust for springtime
and a pair of boots,
the kind he wore
in Thelma and Louise,
I'd drive girls to the edge,
that jagged line at Love's Divide
tell them sorry, baby,
from here on out
it's a freefall
I'd watch them fall.
Whoever said the cost
of a movie ticket
is the price of a woman's
soul. In this movie
souls are cheaper than leather.
But there's always that
one find, undiscovered
by casting directors,
with her deadpan eyes
like blue pills,
and her body that's more
perfect than Spanish fly,
she can handle danger
like an assassin on Valium,
while I'm still trying to get
back in the saddle.
We'll sleep with a pair
of silencers under the pillows,
dream of sharks at night
smelling the blood from our casted flesh,
sensing a bait
of guppie-shaped hearts,
a ruse for amphibians
saw-toothed wannabes,
who want to be in pictures.
Or I might kill her off
in the shower,
comb my hair
nudge my shades
flash that killer smile
my Cordon Bleu cool
walk slick-skinned
into my next film.