Three Poems from Dan Provost

Dan Provost, Poetry, Punk Noir Magazine
Never Improved
You can play the
part girl with the
Letters to Cleo pigtails.
Position your ruby lips
in that Post-modern 1990’s canonized
I just could never play the healer.
The veteran scamps still
scatter the night
Adjusting hairpins and brassieres.
Hoping to arouse bottle rockets.
Battle scars from
a bad daddy or a
tattoo expressing aggression.
Still walk in and out of
this aging cinema’s
The lipstick sneer
or the welling victim?
Trouble distinguishing anymore…
I’ve been out of the game too long…
And there is no “old timers’ day.”
No discount coupons or
updated manuals.
Women in darkness were
always a hard read.
They wandered about…
Slightly sad…
Slightly shaky…
But always seemed in
warped control.
Scantily dressed, showing enough
shanty leg to keep morons like
Internally mumbling.
Fantasizing to guess,
brazen sexuality…
Day Drinking with Mick and Keith
Wasted again, with
the Rolling Stones
serving as some perverted
soundtrack for my desire
to punch a fiend in
the face…
No, Sympathy
For the Devil is not my
inspiration to cold cock
any asshole who gets in my way…
It’s just another day drink stupor.  With
Jagger’s oblong face and Richards
drunken jargon implanted in my
fuzzy head.
Two P.M. might as well be
midnight—as I stagger from
Smitty’s Pub, ready to smack any
well-earned salesmen who has the
gift of bullshit.
2000 Light Years From
Home ain’t going to get
it done today Leroy…
I’m leaping along, bobbing and
Laughing and falling towards
the intersection where…
The rubber meets the road.
Six Word Life Memoir
Signals worn due to self-hatred.