Julie Whatshername. Poem by Brevet Wilson

I've carved her out of thin air,
and fire.
Words, like hot candy, drip from her mouth.

There is a certain ammount of destruction in her eyes.

Her apartment is draped in cheap silk
and bead curtains.

She says she is an artist from Soho,
but really she is an ex-mormon from Provo.

She lets me sketch her nude.
Even though she knows damn well
I can't draw.

She wants to be a bohemian
She talks about Bukowski and Hunke
but all I hear is
'My bed is never made.'

The sunlight always hits her just right,
she has a natrual talent for always showing her 'good side'.

She let me sleep on her couch once or twice,
her cats are named Matisse and cassatt.

All of her poems are very sincere,
which is to say
they rhyme and are horrible.
I tell her I love them anyway,
'The imagery is stark yet beautiful.
I love the last lines.'

She is the Holly Golightly of 400 south.
When she spills her drinks it's adorable
and men rush in like flies to clean it up
while she giggles in mock embarrasment.

It's 2: 03 AM and she is at her easel...
again..
And I leave her,
as she talks to herself while she makes big
broad
brush strokes...
another canvas destined for the trash heap.
I leav her there,
my collar up against a cliche wind.
playing with the badly done sketches in my coat pocket
as I walk with nowhere, really, to go.