3 Poems by Dane Smith

Dane Smith, Noir, Poetry, Punk Noir Magazine
I ache.

Headache from 
cheap wine,
arms hurt from
pushing myself up 
time and again,
back spasms
from fucking her
against the wall,
her legs wrapped
around my back,
arms tight about 
my neck
like I was life itself
she was holding onto.

These are my pains.
Not so terrible,
not so bad that 
I will refuse to exist
not so cruel
that I cannot 
laugh at tender-hearted
assholes who want 
to change me.
A little more booze,
a little rest
and I’m as good–
or near as good–
as new.

A misery.
I’ve looked into
your open window
and I see it 
the raging disease of
eternal heartache
splattered on the walls;
no booze,
no woman,
not even a dirty magazine
to fantasize over.
You drag yourself 
out twice a day
come back with
empty arms
and an ocean 
of fluid thoughts
to drown in.

An open wound.
You bleed out
as you struggle
to paint a smile
on the crumbling 
portico of your existence
saving yourself
for a woman with
an empty spot
where her compassion
used to be;
she’ll be needy
a little distant,
with dreamy eyes
and long, flexible
dancer’s legs
and you’ll kiss her
and die in her
so glad that your 
void is temporarily

I ache.

But I’m alive.
I’ll dance to
some punk-rock 
guitar-screaming dirge, 
spike up my straggly, 
thinning hair 
bitch and moan
about the incompatibility
of money and women;
I’ll scream 
that love is just
another swear word
and that time
is a fleeting pipe dream
that we’ll never
be able to capture,
but meanwhile,
I’m drinking,
watching sadness
crawl over the world
in the guise of 

And I ache.


Tequila On The Rocks
She borrowed her life from a Peoria pawn shop
that specialized in 1950’s antiquities;
she imagined herself to be 
Susan Hayward drinking martini’s at the bar
looking great in an off-the-shoulder dress
all cool and classy,
tough and mysterious
and more than a little sexy.

She was two weeks into a rambling tequila dream
lost on the Mexico border with a broken down Buick
and a handful of imitation pearls.
I was just the lime on the edge of her shot glass,
cooling her down, making her smile,
licking the salt from her neck.


Virtually There
We’re watching each other
with electric, all-seeing eyes,
cameras in our phones, our laptops
how long before we have them
implanted in our heads?
A third eye?  

Watch the neighbor
mow the lawn, plow the wife,
in high-def, super radiant color
so we feel like we are there
close enough to touch
without touching.

Virtual-world unfolds before us
as we see all we want to see
experience experiences without
worry, without fear, without
emotional context
or commitment.

Watch me watch you
so naked and unabashed,
see the details, but misunderstand
the minutiae of our playful motions
we are comfortably cold in confinement
and always watchful.


Dane Smith is a writer of poetry, fiction, stage and screenplays.  He has  published a book of poetry:  Songs From the Barroom Floor and is currently working on a new poetry book as well as a futuristic novel and a stage play.
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