Mexican Beer
You know nothing matters
But you, the muse who comes and goes leaving me
Thinking about your song & dance performances.
The way your voice quavered
Above the sidewalk sounds,
Or how your fashionably booted feet drummed
Footsteps of doom in my jaded being.
You are the Shade time can’t erase,
The karma chameleon who assumes
Whatever guise or form necessary
To affect me in some way.
At the supermarket as we shopped
The tacky cashier-bitch who totaled-up our groceries
Kept calling me Doll Baby; you didn’t care,
Though her patronizing pissed me off.
Then when we got to my apartment
To drink bad beer I asked you to sing
Like Madonna, to swirl about
In your sexy new Victoria’s Secret outfit
That cost too much, but you insisted
It made you stand out from the crowd.
I asked you to dance and go down on me
& you did all that, your blonde hair
Uncurling with sweat & your body
Swaying through a painful territory,
But Madonna wasn’t there.
Or any Victoria’s Secret model.
Only that damn outfit scattered
In colorful disarray, its thong
A purple-spotted rag
Tied around your throat
So the muse would never
Live to tell.
Eventually you fooled me again, coming
Back to say, “You know nothing really matters,”
Ghost-like,
Wondering where the worm was
At the bottom of the tequila bottle
I couldn’t believe
One of us had killed
The other – with love
(or love hate perverted)
Horror Sleaze Trash 