(She busted in and she burglarized my soul,
but now the bad news, she's out on parole.)
-- Jagger & Richards
by Alan Britt
Snare dives, stretches
boney wings & sways its
lightning-in-a-bottle hips
to the thump & punk
of a hi-hat in heat;
angst flares & dies
into ash before rising
like a phoenix amidst a hail
of lead & blazing poppies
tattooed on stained-glass windows,
snakeheads dragging us
below tar pits;
what's left?
Hard G grinds afterbirth
into Zensensation, thereby
perpetuating what steam-fitters want,
what hairdressers, lunch counter matrons
& lonely teachers want, what the Assistant
Manager of Marketing wants; meanwhile,
F minor distracts local security with her
flimsy flat tire plus coral nipple or two
as Keith's Telecaster Blonde bruises
stainless-steel clouds
into 30 thunder beats.
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