Tom Waits’ bleeding knuckles
painting the piano keys.
Keith Richard’s slits a finger
sliding over the Devil’s symphony.
Bukowski stands at the mic
calling everyone up to fight.
The MC dressed in leather
promises one hell of a night.
On drums Keith Moon is vomiting
while John Bonham waits his turn,
through trumpet Miles is jonesing,
waiting for his shit to burn.
Demon Beasts of Bourbon
piss elixir into your throat,
the barman spews toxic venom
through the wicked teeth of a goat.
The bar room’s fucked up crowded,
the bar maids are filthy mean,
but give me a smokin’ dirt house
to any sterile ku klux clean.
Published on Verity La., July 2010
