Monday, September 13, 2010

the bitch slap baby bottle blues

At the moment, I can recall every Monday I've spent in New Orleans. I remember moving here on a Sunday night. I remember my first morning waking up in the Monteleone Hotel. That was Monday #1.

'nother Monday waits in crowded wings
for 'nother Sunday to say she quits
while brother sister rock and sing:
twosomes that shimmy in sexless fits.

rhythm blues
tax dues
rumor news
crossword clues
popular mechanics
my bicycle
swiffer pads

smack cracker urine
floods a souvenir crotch cup

big heart sausage slices
give my pie more power

I give you all my gas lights
I take off all your dance tights
I make up all our last nights
I memorize our slap fights

I'm silly with the south,
grip my face with your mouth.
I'm a stick-my-visa
-in-your-wasteband kind a tipper.
Crack your back against a levee,
get willy-nilly with my zipper.

I done got wise baby to the way these women doin'.
The city smells like a pack of pals purging. Or barf.
I done got wise baby to the way these women doin'.
The city sounds like a tarmac of tourists tweeting. Or flarf.

Ain't no reason to tell a tale that ain't true,
If you want a story baby I google it for you.
Cut up a Second Line with a 2 Live Krewe,
I got the bitch slap baby bottle blues.

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