Roscoe Wrangler, Honkytonk Homeslice

Like a tornado I was spun into this world,
blown free from mamma's womb in a dust
storm of blood and sweat and shit and
doctor hands and wet wailing baby cries.

Now I'm a man. It wasn't long in the coming.
I ain't nothing more than some pieces of cosmic dust,
held together by a conglomeration of badass skills and
kill, kill, kills piled one neatly on top of another.

I dance the night away like a fistfight in a crowded bar
with a drag queen for a bartender and the bar
filled with ex-cons sucking beers
who ain't seen a real vagina in years.

I shake and twist and shimmy, my hips thrust and thrive
my arms pump and shake and juke, and I jive, baby, jive,
and my throat clears at the sight of a lady.

Sweat drips from my brow, and yet I dance the ceiling, dance the floors.
It's, it's, it's in the very double helix of my being,
I'll dance and stomp that floor until the walls fall down and
the ceiling collapses o'erhead, and then I'll grab my hat
and dance on down the road to the next gin joint
filled with easy women and sawdust on the floor.

I'm Roscoe Wrangler, Honkytonk Homeslice,
I'm like a flaming drink spilled on your lap,
or a rattlesnake in your bed.

There Are Only Three Arms in This Race to the Pudding

Once, twice, three times a
squab.
Up, jump, turn around and
kill, kill, kill.
Down times three plus seventy
eight, eight, eight.

The French might eat you,
they might gobble you up,
but fear nothing, for their
accents are far worse than their bites.

The bite of a nightowl in the throes
of seduction by suction,
a disemboweled dream, and a disconnected
tissue of memory. We make sounds,
but they are not always nice
or angry, sometimes they are loving and soft,
like the bristles on the underbelly of a dead rhinoceros.

Ceros! Ceros!
they've come to get you again.
Wake up, I cannot carry you again,
not this time. I am too weak.
Their poisons have made my muscles
tired and small, and my mucous
is no longer wet, but dry and
hard, and it makes me
wheeze in the air of this world
I will soon depart,
but Ceros, please,
before they arrive, you must leave
or you will leave this world for good.

And then comes the cannibals of
Necchaubinzalim, they who eat the hair
as well as the flesh and the air that permeates
the membranes of their 18" of personal space,
they gnash and bite at the flies that hum and
hover over redness and wetness, as if to say,
"YOU STAY AWAY! THIS IS MINE, MINE, MINE!!"
But then they will grow up to become fine
young politicians some day, concerned with only
the hairs and fleshes of those silly enough
to cast a vote in their direction.

Up to bed,
and an organ plays softly in the night air,
a body on its downward rot, and the mind
not quite what it used to be,
that organ always reminds her of her younger
church days, when she believed,
believed in something, but now what does
she believe in?
Liver spots or liverwurst, but surely not a
God who protects and cherishes. Rather in
hurricanes that sweep over land and air, sucking
and heaving and whipping and pushing,
and the smell of people who just couldn't swim any
more.
The news tells her all about it now.

Zip top flash pan, up and coming Naobi,
a turn in the tin suck is a fourscore
and seven years ago. The much muck created
in the scundulous, skindulour is of no
use in the fly's only abode. In the ear
of a man, is the wax we need to keep breathing
our air.

Don't go anywhere!
Don't go away.
Can't you see they need you?
Their bodies need your eyes.
Keep watching them on your TV.
Keep reading the scandal sheets on your computer.
Their bodies will waste away without your eyes.
They will waste away to nothing without your words,
scathing or praising, it doesn't matter.
They feed off of you,
the parasites of Celebricity.

Thomas Edison, you goddamn sonofabitch,
Topsy didn't deserve to die just
because she killed three people.
An eye is definitely an eye when
it comes to marketing electricity.
She was abused:
how would you feel if
you were fed a lit cigarette?