Accountants Fuck Like Numbers (Ode to Frank Zappa)
Voracious penny stocks work in teams with the jowls of thrashing piranhas.
Accountants fuck like numbers: arch their backs into a 9, slap the thighs with a bashful 3,
thrusting a 7 from murky heavens like a man of growth caught in mustache gardens.
Rolls of water buffalo snot fashioned into snakeskin wallets, a brinkman’s economy
full of hot button pleasers. Squirters and screamers from behind surprise party couches.
Jumping out to meet that tracker, in the scope of his tranquilizer gun. No one speaks
of fair fights anymore, you take on the numbers and bruise with the snapping chain link.
That acapella hum of foxy green electrical boxes charged with fantasizing away
the cumbersome hours. The way the mayor’s wife always spoils her ballots in the bedroom.
Combing out the knots of her hair in a manic wrecking ball fever. Her peach cobbler manners
and that nervous tick that forces her to duck her head at inopportune times.
Like a pawing jab in line for the Cruiserweight strap, 5 rounds into a faulty gameplan
the bucking gym rats can hardly fathom. Money is lost – numbers with consequences.
Garrulous homewreckers pile into cars and filter out along the avenues.
I promise to revisit my Huck Finn as soon as I get home – huck huck huck!
Like that city boy huckster Holden Caulfield, but forever in the bowels
of the Mighty Mississippi.
Horror Sleaze Trash 