Sheela Free

If I Can’t Have You

They’ve been at it since early this morning
perfect setting, gritty reality
putting up the virginal white tent
with marigold paper blossoms
crisscrossed with baby lavender, bold majenta ribbons
white chairs embraced by long draped sashes
which hug the gazebo, the tent, breathlessly
Tables with formal cut glass crystal
center pieces enchanted by lilies and orchids
awaiting happy hungry mouths.

All this in a gated park
on an unusually slumberous CA summer day
with the drowsy scent of pure gardenias
and laden Valencia orange blossoms
teasing the male bees into a frenzy
Hell, bro, it smells of money.
No-one even notices me in my rusty bucket of a Saturn
a grey 5KLL727 my prison homis stole for me
as I sit corpse like scanning this crap picture
fiddling with the FM knob till I find Eminem,
“not afraid” at all, ever. BMW’s-bitches, motherefing whores-all,
not him now, so fidget on till I get Chris Brown
crooning love to cover up my memory of him
crushing Rihanna’s facial bones to a pulp
which she first thought was love, which it was
so she stayed, hey 79% of all girls thought so too
all drunk on the power of man and his money, bro
going on forever and ever even with Ralph and
Alice, “pow in the kisser”, it’s all in the culture.

The long black limo pulls up behind me
belching out the tittering throngs, church stained,
onto the dewy grass.
Something’s wrong with this picture, bro
It should have been me, not him, the groom.
The bitch has moved up since moving on, homi.
I look changed now as I stroke my neatly trimmed goatee
push up my Raybans with my middle finger-they pinch,
roll my sleeves down to cover my newer tattoos I got in prison
again-let out with 6500 others by a bleeding broke country
oh, there she is, there she is-you’re mine, bitch, not his
my mind hisses as I clench the Glock.
Into her belly I pump my heart-pow pow pow.
The wedding congregation watches in slo mo
the blood blossoming in her belly.
You left, you put me away.
If I can’t have you, no-one can.

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