SKIN COLD AS ICE by Peter Nolan Smith

Lou Reed died last week.
A friend called to ask, if I knew the singer.
I said, “no.”
He then asked if I thought Nico was a good fuck.
“I don’t know,” I replied and hung up thinking one thing.

The Velvet Underground’s singer was probably great in bed.

Once in Paris I had a Nico lookalike girlfriend.
Maribelle was a blonde aristocrat junkie model.
I was working at the Bains Douche as a doorman.
One winter night Maribelle came back to my flat on the Ile St. Louis.
Heroin sang us to sleep.
Neither of us took off our clothes.
There was no sex.

The next morning I woke to the bells of Notre Dame.
The windows were open and I shivered with the cold.
Maribelle’s skin was ice to my touch.

I thought she was dead, then her lungs drew a shallow breath.

Maribelle was alive.

I closed the window and fucked her with the dawn.
It was like making love to a beautiful corpse
And she gave a death rattle as a moan.

"Good?" I asked from on top.

She simply pleaded, "Encore."

I gave what she wanted,
Because Mirabelle was very good for such a bad girl
And I bet Nico was the same.

A godess best undressed in the cold.