. The Poet's Beat .

. The Poet's Beat .
"A working class citizen is apt to see this country for what it's worth... A miasma of interlocking variations on differing demographics and geographies unlike any other inhabited space in the world. The American Dream. The rolling footloose hills and the upstanding Apache badlands where criminals cut bread with priests and the children of Hollywood. I am no different. Yet I am still brazen enough to think that the world is a playground built by the rugged hands of a hard-working man in order that my fantasies be materialized." -- P.P. Vonnersdale

Tuesday, April 10, 2012

Mon cœur est Lafayette

Fashion show at the Blue Moon Saloon...

Mon cœur est Lafayette
où les jolies filles transpirent quand ils dansent,
Wooden white folding chairs in the garden,
Fat as fuck full moon saying come, little children,
Célébrez avec moi!
Célébrez avec moi!
Dip your fingers into the stars and suck the head,
A Spiral Galaxy of ketchup and mayonnaise
And the sweet sting of the spices in the cuts on your hands,

I walk like sex up her legs
Over her denim hips to sparkle in the golden jewelry
     that dances between her tits,
 Willy-nilly she slings a disinterested gaze into the crowd,
I’d like to sling that shit right back at her feet,
but like a weather worn fool I reach out to catch it,
Burn my hands when she looks at me,
When she looks through me,
Placing one heavy-heeled hoof in front the other,
Riding her own pendulating hips with invisible
     pistols smoking hot in her fists,

Lafayette a les plus belles filles dans le monde,
And what would you have me do??
They wear pheasant feathers on Indian headbands in their hair,
Cloak themselves in clouds,
Eyes painted in the same colors as night-time stories
     and dreams that don’t make it into morning memory,
They’ve forgotten about how we stare at their pebble’d nipples,
Cigarette smoke hanging in soft shapes around their lips,
Bouncing like wayward rabbits and topless behind the curtain,
Sweet sweat gathering in the soft spots on their flesh,
Holy Hell the Moon is pregnant tonight!
Inviting me up, up, up,
To dance in those dark shadow dimples,
Ces lapins de Lafayette,
     avec leurs longues jambes et des seins magnifiques.


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