Colossus from a rockabilly float,
piled blonde, plaid blouse cinched into cutoffs,
wiggles, “I need a man, I need a man,
I need a man.” Like the old song goes.
Knitting Factory bouncer, House O’Love spy,
double-bottle brunette, cartoon caveman with a jaw like a trout,
wolf long as a limo, and don’t forget
the ibis that says she’s somebody’s mother.
You dance close to the tourist whose shaved albino neck
smells of the beer garden, and you realize he’s your type.
So maybe you like the scare yourself, de temps en temps.
Some pepper on that?
Fwup, fwup, fwup, shouts the copter
bulging blue head in the inky sky; and lululu,
warbles the auteur. Oh, night is the permeable membrane,
the terrible present tense.