I'd been pacing for hours trying to find the right words, and by the time I was ready to respond, moonlight was cutting through the blinds like a dozen silver bullets on my cheap carpet. Sure, the sonnet had moxie, but it was all tied up in knots, tighter than one of those broads at the bondage club on the bad end of Hollywood. I remember when it first waltzed across my desktop with this sob story 'bout some poor dame and Johnny what's-his-name, that nice guy: too nice, we all knew would never make it. What can I say, the poem knew how to talk the talk, right up to those violins, then the inevitable fade to black.
Next thing I know, the poem's got this cockamamie coda, like a banjo after a fancy Italian opera. They meet again and... what? Boom, happily ever after? Not in this town, sister. I'm from the City of Angels. The Big Lazy. Film noir is like a masseuse in Brentwood -- it doesn't do happy endings. Remember Johnny? He's doin' 20 to life with the Valley Fever Chain Gang north of Fresno. That dame played him for a patsy and got the old fart de-gassed to boot. That's noir, doll-baby. Those tears at the end, I think I know the crocodile you got 'em from.
When it all hit the fan, there were only two things I knew for sure. First of all, a romantic noir ending is like a Hollywood budget -- it's all lies. A poem that would chain itself to that idea will sink faster than a snitch in cement shoes, with a lead apron for good measure. Second, you gotta get that slanting half-light in there. You ain't got noir if you ain't got that chiaroscuro.
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