Roaming,
The film noir of desolate tracts, – and tracts
Smell the dirt and piss yellow air,
As more tracts go by
Your companion swells, beams as she nears
The white slums of Baker County
Look up and somewhere in the blue floor of God
You realize you’re forsaken
Doomed!
To the badlands
And the country gothic acrylics
The dark and light of the perverse and wretched
All moving to the tribal grunts
Like sharecroppers in the fields
Like the cornpone Lolita’s, chased, haggard – old youth
Running to escape the liver spotted
Thick veined hands of pederasts
Old corpses consuming the youth
Like the deacons hustling the single mothers
Assuring them their fuck trophies are, indeed, human beings
Like the lusty farm wench
With the passion poodle who laps her inner thigh
Who can stand the weight or see dark in this light when it’s all in plain view
My companion, my adulterous love
Loves the gleams dark, small artificial spirit sitting on the sweaty table
In a darker coma in the false sunlight of bowling alleys
With the horny courtesy of mediocre globs of hair and flesh and tattoos of barbed wire
And gleeful, colloquial blah – blah – blah, and baby, and hmmm, and underwear,
And heat rash, and asses with rashes, and penis, and bad, bad, revelry,
And smiles that aren’t really smiles
And anything that exudes a machismo shaped with AXE perfume and squeeze cheese
And men boys raised from bastardom to provide bastardom
And lechery, buggery, and fetishes
Fetishes!
Momma fetishes, child fetishes, papa fetishes, masturbating in the vile toilets
Of beer whores and to the soup of the septic tanks of their minds
The tyranny of the ignorant and the treachery of the small minded
Whoosh!!!
Onward towards the hopeless horizon,
Towards the smashed rattlesnakes and armadillos
And mirages of Florida swimming the highways
Smell the stale pines – mowed down dead
Lay limp
The noble pine, subjugated
Rendered to nothing more than commerce for the crackers
This is the country where are the sleepy home and rows of produce
And the blond, home fed chillin’
Daddy on the tractor, momma on the mailman
As the fox nearby lingers
I was once intrigued enough to ask my love
About the wonders of a place that could cause so much discord between us
And she couldn’t answer except to say that it was spiritual
And to also insinuate that by somehow discussing this I was violating her liberties
“downgrading” her
keeping her from her freedom,
disrespecting her
browbeating her with my “brooding disapproval”
all over a question; why?
I’m the bad joke that won’t quit laughing
Austere, poised, foolish, silly, serious – miserable
To leap at every insult sheathed in harmlessness – but not very cleverly
By The Three Whores of Doom…
The shaggy, dog faced whore who barks with testosterone
And never gives truth or constructive criticism
The rounder tramp whose only hope is to subvert my love with hand me downs
Pity coins, stroking vanity, pulverizing honesty…
The virtuous whore of the vain estate built of adultery and deceit
Crowned by the two faced, beer swilling, methodical, passive aggressive bumpkin of depravity and malicious intent
And so goes the convictions as I ride to the Sahara of the Bozart
Marveling over the perseverance of H.L. Mencken’s wisdom
And wishing that, instead of me, he were alive to experience it first hand….