O that life could be a day-and-night dance party
with ginger ale, gin and tonics, or Bacardi
and Coke—who cares?—as long as the music keeps coming
like a railroad train without brakes, the engine storming
down the tracks, the conductor's hair flying in the night
air, like a tornado now, because I might
just take off, Little Richard screaming “Tutti Frutti”
on my little portable record player, duty
fleeing like an a-wop-bop-a-loo-bop bomb on speed,
and though my drug days are behind me, tonight I need
a fix of funk, because, lights low, “Little Red Corvette”
will cure any ailment, even the knock-down Tourette's
that attacks at three a.m., super-ego Babette,
snappy little twat with a French accent, legs, you bet,
in fishnet hose and a skirt up to here, snarling, “Slut,”
though for emphasis she adds, putain, salope. “But, but,
but,” I stutter, “I haven't slept with anyone but Dave
for 25 years.” “That's what you think, you bourgeois slave,”
and God knows I can let a detail slip, but you'd think
I'd remember that, so excuse me while I sink
into a slough of despond so deep I can hear Chinese
beneath my feet, but hold on—What's that?—It's “Please,
Mr. Postman,” and the Marvelettes swing down and grab
me up, for my rock-and-roll ids, Barbie and Babs,
have pushed back the rug, are doing the twist, drinking Tabs.
“Forget that French bitch and her zombie hoard. You can stab
us in the back and call us Keith Richards,” the girls coo,
and then scream the lyrics of “I Put a Spell on You,”
because they've read Heidegger and Simone de Beauvoir,
too, but it's not going stop them swinging ce soir,
dancing in the streets with Martha and the Vandellas
and drinking mai tais with little purple umbrellas,
for they reside in the land of a thousand dances,
where Wilson Pickett reigns supreme, while I freelance
at the funk bazaar, because sometimes Prince's “Kiss”
is all that stands between me and the darkening abyss,
and my girls are swinging their ponytails with Nadine,
Layla, Gloria, because we heard it through the grapevine
that not much longer will we be here, so let's go, girls,
down to the basement and say hello to the devil,
because his dress is red and trouble is on his mind,
and he's out searching for girls, but what does he find
when he gets to the party, revved up, ready to scare
our pants off—our pants are off and we're not fighting fair,
and who is the devil anyway but some ugly
guy with a goatee and fire coming from his ears. We
say, to hell with you, your minions, too, for there's music
in the air, and the night is shorter than your prick,
Satan, so move along, because we have some dancing
to do, in the streets, under the sheets. I'm not mincing
words here, because I've got three girls in one body. Wait,
that smells like religion, which I can do, especially the hate.