Somewhere . . .  or on the outskirts of,  black night,  storms raging above  
cheap motel,  rural roadside,  headlights swerve,  They arrive
One to the office,  One stays behind,  get a room,  all will be fine . . .

dismal sanctuary, room # 7,  old and dirty,  white trash heaven
door crashes open,  They enter,  slow struggling stumbles, to the center
moans of pain,  excruciating,  grunted curses,  nerves grating . . . 

She hits the light,  shuts the door,  with a stifled yelp,  He hits the floor
She rushes over,  knows what to do,  stop the bleeding,  where the bullet went thru 
stifled groans,  teeth grind,  fists clenched,  losing time . . .

whiskey cleansing,  bleeding stopped,  wound sealed, with a blade red-hot

drink away pain,  bed rest,  lying together,  Her had on His chest
gentle rain,  no light,  silent reflection,  on a wicked night
She lifts Her head,  looks over Him,  quietly concerned,  moves closer in . . .  

                     "  Anything I can do for ya, Baby ? "
                    
                     "  How 'bout not fuckin' shootin' me next time. "

                     "  How 'bout not fuckin' gettin' in the way of a fuckin'
                        cop next time ! "

                     "  How 'bout not turnin' every goddamn fuckin' situation
                        into the old fuckin' west  next time ?! "

Angry silence,  tension grows,  not for long,  true love shows
He wipes Her tears,  pulls Her in,  a simple whisper,  They both grin . . . 

                      "  There is somethin' ya can do for me,  your,  ahhh
                         ' word thing ' . . .  ya know  "   
                      
                      "  My word thing, huh ? "

                      "  Yeah . . . that's always cool. "

                      "  ' kay . . .  ya want me to wear the shoulder holster ?
                           And the black thong ? "

                      "  Next time. "

Their eyes close,  His mind clears,  She searches thoughts,  to drive away fears

                       "  Never the Hollywood glory story, just an impossible 
                          orgy of wild sex, good drugs and hard violence 
                          mocking what they call love, in a pastel silence
                          squeezed thru a slit, imagination's silver edge
                          written notes on brass vision, Our way - Our pledge
                          Painted in perfection, so scarce is the darkest red
                          try not to let go, of all the things we've said
                          they are now framed in true blue fassion, Our passion too
                          my biggest mistakes happen,  because I love you . . .  "

Exhaustion takes over,  He smiles asleep,  She returns it and follows deep . . . 

MORNING came . . .  She refused to cry . . . sometime in the night . . . He had died 

She stared at Him,  for a long while,  fighting the waves,  of surreal denial
She paced the room,  circling slow,  She begins to speak,  in Her haunting flow . . .

                        "  And the true climax is reached,  Our world now breached
                           Luna gripped her tides,  with no time for any Goodbyes
                           Tragic magic, we blended and mended in the swirl of
                            twilight blessings, We bloomed in the doom of Love . . . "

Dug out of a suitcase,  bottle of pills,  wide variety,  on the dresser it spills
She picks out pinks,  a few blues,  washes them down,  with last night's booze

                         "  No wayward surprise, the wind is an army of sad sighs
                            well known to the Heavens,  as half of me dies
                            But we did shatter the stars, that withheld Our wishes
                            violence is the Great Giver, of all the world's riches . . . "

She changed,  something else to wear,  a shoulder holster,  black thong underwear
Another 10 pills,  all washed down,  She looks at Him,  with a crumbling frown
She picks up a revolver, puts it away,  holstered again,  won't need it today

                          "  Riots in the inner calm, Peace extracted from killing
                             angry spirits create Our aura, no feeling more fulfilling
                             Now, in yesterday's tomorrow, the eternal white fire
                             vengeance was Our cerebral god, never a faceless liar . . . "

She begins to sway,  feeling the effects,  chemical cocktail,  with no regrets
stumbling to the bed,  crawling slow,  to be at His side,  when it's time to go
With Her head on His chest,  arm around,  eyes now closed,  light dimming down

                           "  The Reaper is coming . . .   
                                            in the guise . . . of a Fairy Tale Witch . . . "
                                                    
She lifts Her head,  for one last look,  famous last words,  in their unwritten book

                           "  . . .  and you better be waitin' for me . . .  you sonnova bitch . . . "