Stampede!
The boils on my billfold have begun to bore me
My last place ribbons have begun to swarm me
Back ye jealous fiends!
You can't dress like me.
Stampede!
The ghost of Jimi Hendrix hovered above me
Like scrambled porn on UHF
My eyes couldn't adjust fast enough
My ribbons twittered.
What do you want with me? My blood? My ribbons?
Stampede!
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In the grand tradition of preachers of yore, I come to you with hat in hand hoping for a little something to pay for the booze. Or booze.
1 comment:
your descent into madness...fascinating....in your words i hear the voice of fierce hopelessness...you are winter's new poet laureate...
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