Robert Johnson
lived where there were no arteries
only veins
squeezing blue sluggish fluids
into the heart

Robert Johnson
lived where even love
was poison

Robert Johnson
lived where he could
condemn every one of us
to Hell
with gusto

Robert Johnson
lived where he died
though he got around some
if the story is to be believed

Robert Johnson
lived and died
in pussy
bottle
guitar
one sharp suit

You’re no Robert Johnson
Cigarette boy from the suburbs
You’ve seen plenty and gone far
but I can tell where you live
That smells like good weed
I know that’s good whiskey
And that’s one hell of a guitar

If I had possession over Judgment Day
I’d cut you in your fretting hand
just to see what color you bleed