Shooting from both ends for a word
A god damn aria of beauty
Thinking about elephant hills, mounds
and mounds
Of midnights broken into crab shells
smashed
Into pastures of stories strung out
and fired
Lit like a damn demon crawling
scared
That the words might run out
The beast might be stuffed with
language of things to lose
Men with consequences get gaunt
faces of pressed cuffs
Tall enough angles bedding down in
stripper stilettos
So she can get hot for him
Like a God
To read at the microphone
Hum, baby hum on the meat pie
Branded and homely to now wanting to
be cool
Know that this place is hipster craft
cocktail Valhalla
The magic trash is incendiary
See the punch bin of gut poetry
Breeding tire fires for a chance to
be a dancer
A frosted whiskey knot barfly gnash
of wind and booze
Signed out and black at the father
of penned smut
Designer dresses purring, pimped
thousand dollar shoes
For the best male ass to pin
Take the prime cut baby
Lick up what your daddy did
With that two hundred dollar hair
cut
Like a bench warrant
She pumps to make him approach her
Like damage because nothing is good
enough
The look, the vulva, the chest
pressed lover of degenerated lust
Name on a list of wanted lovelies
The wet dream caked slut characters
that men pretend
When light switches fly, bodies
don’t need faces
Blank black want roar like a
bleached heart torn
Whistling for a stalk down the gore
lens of Pamplona
A missile bloodied up grime
juggernaut flaunting for a hero
Woman wants a champion to pin her
down
Leak out her loneliness to say
This is magic open and crawling to
be made
Done married to nothing, the vast
crunch of deadly sheer wants
This stench is something
Letting go of ripped off costume
placebo glue
On and off wrapped and pasted into
conversation blood lettings
Give me glitter, pasties and g
string
Give me stretch marks and pissing
the money from the track
On suds and Miss Elle Dorado busting
out
Burlesque with a pool cue
Like a fool’s draught sucked down,
imbibed with naked wonder
That this moment was performance art
To be a whore for him and licked
from lip to lip
Slit like feral hunger
As if the man were a wolf smacking
flesh aromatic
Killing her as she wanted at his
fetishism
Open and racked her on a pillory of
ashes
Melting for redemption for being so
god damn boring
To quit the stuck mannequin for Wall
Street and daddy’s magazine epitome
She scoffed at flat curvy and wild
throb to feel erudite and timeless
Admit she wanted to be a stripper
too and dance
Dance for the gawk men wrestling
their pant legs
To find the space she was taking
from them by the minute
By the turn jangling and it was
everything
The universe became an orbit of
blood wandering in sheets
Of back row inches down parading in
the unshaven army of barfly husbands
Balladeers of the time clock; the
god damn time clock
Making babies out of men taking,
taking, taking moments
Away from the civilized mothers and
wives who would not
Do what she would, because she could
dance
She could move like a live-in devil
poking back the tuxedo dry suits
Of neck tie slut men hawking oil
filters and post office deliveries
Something the machine needed because
it was always fucking hungry
The insatiable beast of the day job
churning out the dead
Like Nazi bulimia floating Jews in
the canals of Pittsburgh
Rotting rivers of showmanship
smoking steel and
Detroit rubbers to fuck the night
shifts for trying
For god damn trying; don’t try!
She says, “Don’t try, because trying
is putrid.”
No comments:
Post a Comment