They Called Her Vanessa

She went by Vanessa
when she spun around the
center of the neon universe,
stars flying from her fingernails,
two planets in front
two planets behind.

Wherever we would go
all the women rolled their eyes
and the men snapped their fingers
and gave me a wink.

She left little to the imagination
and you can imagine
what I mean
by
that.

At the bars
they would line up in great number.

They always seemed to know her -
they called her Vanessa.

She said,
"Don't worry daddy,
its just 'cause I give out fake names
on the
dance floors."

Here they would come:
frat boys,
financiers,
bikers,
bloodsuckers and
brawlers,
all lining up like bowling pins
waiting for a turn
with the
knockout.

My only job was to
feed her drinks
and try my best
to keep the drugs
out of her hot
little
hands,
always keeping
one eye open,
in case I needed to reign it back in
when she eventually
leaned toward
the
edge.

Once,
she brought a young conquest over
for me to inspect;
this one was dinner and
dinner was apparently
served.

I lost my legendary cool.

I tore into the both of them
with an alcoholic rage,
scaring Vanessa's trophy and
sending her into a
fierce and
unreasonable
fury.

She screamed bloody murder until
fire
spewed from her nostrils,
the many onlookers shifting nervously
in their heels and loafers.

When I'd heard enough I
exited stage right,
leaving her to her entourage
and buffet of earthly pleasures.

It's alright.

These days,
I think about it all and
smile.

She had some guts.

She was mostly breast and thigh
but she sure had some guts
too.

She was full of guts and chum
and she laid plenty of both wherever she went.

When you're a shark,
you don't fear the spear
or the propeller.
But the hook -
the hook is far
too much
to
bear.