Listen here, cunt flap Suzie! Head's up, Streetwalk Sally!
Hear me tell of a curb down in Livingstone's Alley
where the wee wobbled wenches sleep-dance through the day
so at night their grey bosoms can come out to play
with their smoke-winsome songs burp up sacrifice stew
and their ponytails longing for someone like you
and they climb to your car like a leech to a shin
and they slash down your fare til you let their arse in

You've a flask on the floor and you open their jaw
til their mouth stakes its claim on the shaft of your claw
and the cab tumbles up to the dreamhome you rent
and you scream "here's your tip" as you piss on the gent
and the sidewalk is grey from the daily rountine
of old rain that prepares you for Fate's Guillotine
and you fish for the keys in your red leather coat
find them swathed, lullabyed in a crumpled pound note

All the lights still are on, and the cat's starved for cream
and the clock says "Your nights? Have they been what they seem?"
So you kick it to shreds, and she nervously laughs
as she thumbs through the pouch full of fresh photographs
on the couch by the door that show last week's soirees
with the slick record men nodding heads to give praise
to the sick hungry howls of your bands demo tapes
that deride holy words and pontificate rapes

Grab a beer from the fridge, just one left, say you'll share
see her eyes, drunk with lies, grab the stems of her hair
throw her down to the ground, pull her to the brown rug
rip her coat off and fart as she waits for a hug
slither southward to show off the width of your tongue
lock your teeth on the zipper til fillings get stung
and your nose parks and snores in her pink vinyl crotch
and her eyes try to focus on your salesman's watch

11.25.01

back