Monday, October 14, 2013

Bloody Mary

Tony Pena


I have had things published online in  Red Fez, Full of Crow, Gutter Eloquence, Underground Voices and Zygote in my coffee. I also have posted some poems and songs at


Bloody Mary


Baby blue July morning

brunch at the boathouse

thirty years after graduating

high school and armed with pieces

of little girl dreams that managed

to find bits of truth here and there.

Mostly material, maternal and manic.


Great to see the gals again and drink

something fancier than kamikazes,

Alabama slammers and PBR

drafts of days gone by so fuck

Eggs Benedict and Belgian waffles,

this morning's all about reliving

the glorious days of youth.


Gloating about her housekeepers,

her golf game and what a good fuck

the house pro is for somebody

with broken dreams and a small dick.

And the poor Mexican bus boys

can't keep up with the empty glasses

and the fat bartender with the bad

toupee might be fuckable so long as

she's on top and she can wipe her cunt

with his wig when she comes.


And the girls start with their excuses

for snipping the soiree in the bud

so she makes a big show of paying

the five hundred dollar tab,

blowing kisses like a red carpet

starlet and stumbling

into the arms of the valet,

Frenching him in lieu of tip

before taking the keys

to this year's BMW and away

she goes zig zagging and scouting

the drag for one more for the road.


“Fuck this dry town Sunday shit,

talk to me, Siri, find me a bar

on what's this road called,

what the fuck is this road called,

where's my Madonna cd,

the one with 'Like a virgin' on it,

what the fuck is this road called,

where's my gum in this damn purse,

what the fuck is this road called,

what the fuck are these people

doing on my fucking . . .”


Flames burning a family

of five alive on their way

to Six Flags for summer fun.

Mary puking liquor and excuses

on any cop who might listen,

batting eye lashes

but only fanning

the fires of hell.


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