Willie Smith

Voodoo Lilly

They call her, down at the bar, Voodoo Lilly. 
Sees clear through you to the back window. 
Tells exact who you are. 
Flips an eye into your mind.
Steps out into the air. 
Leaving you bare. 
Clothing in a hamper. 
Mother in a camper 
in Portland, in November, 
can a soul get any damper? 
You run, in mad love, 
out into the rain, 
another man insane 
for the needle and the smoke 
and the Mona Lisa smile 
and the dipsy-doodle eyes. 

Voodoo Lilly sends over a wise guy. 
Who enlightens you of the 
contents of your wallet. 
Leaves a broken nose and a bloody kiss. 
Voodoo Lilly nails another needle 
to the weather vane. 
Screeches to the deaf: 
“Love the seeds all green in my pod!”
The barkeep – tipped off – 
appears from nowhere. 
Sops, with a logo napkin, 
five trillion corpuscles up. 
Says with a grin: 
“Our beer here gives the blood a bath; 
cleanses the mind; 
teaches the soul to roll over, play dead.” 

Voodoo Lilly sees through you 
like a traffic cop a U-turn.  
But what she catches through the window, 
that keeps, when open, your ass chill
in this hot mess, 
scares the pants off the bar. 

Voodoo Lilly blooms, after sunset, 
in the mirror beside the rye. 
She drains, of a wee hour, 
the old moon of all blood. 
Spins the Bar Nun into a chapel, 
demolished to build a parking lot. 

Voodoo Lilly is a lot safer 
than a gun to the head. 
A lot saner than a full moon 
wolf in the bed. 
Oh, no – Voodoo Lilly 
never quite wants you dead.