Words

Hell’s Band

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