Smoke on the Water
Days my Flying-V blared through a stolen Fender
Twin: motherfuck you and all the neighbors. At night I drew the shades,
turned on the blacklight and burned the purple candle. I lurked in the roller
rinks and grew out my hair. Rolled joints with your daughter in the
fancy living-room while you and the old lady snored. I took her
rumbling out of your neighborhood in my jacked-up GTO. Parked by a
dumpster. Drank Thunderbird, backseated. We balled until morning
wiped out the stars & pigeons cried like brats. Pulled into the
Citgo to clean and fill with racing fuel, a tank to burn. We broke
our teeth in the windshield.
Peter Ramos has poems in Indiana Review, Painted Bride
Quarterly, Verse, The Chattahoochee Review, and Poet Lore.
He is the author of one book of poetry, Please Do Not Feed the
Ghost (BlazeVox Books, 2008), and two chapbooks: Watching
Late-Night Hitchcock & Other Poems (handwritten press 2004), and
Short Waves (White Eagle Coffee Store Press 2003).