Rough Draft

Last Night with Salome and Lorelei

My mama said I can have anything I want.
My girl Lorelei and I go out to the club
looking for tastey minds.
We're hungry zombie's laughing
at Snow White through the mirror.

In taxed whore joints I win the $200
cash prize every time.
Lorelei holds 'em with her hexing
freezing wolf-en visages
into drowling portraits.

This Sabbath, we went to Pussyfooter's.
Pennsylvania sacriliged its state rule
as I cried on my bruised knees, so
I could dance this night like I'd die Monday.

I had a funny feeling deep in my feet,
for shadows never lie.
(One last go before I go.)

Perhaps it was the cliche full moon
and my full moon and its odor, which
is like the odor of bleeding necks.
I dismissed Marion the trapeze angel
foretelling her broken neck last
full moon of her high swinging
in favor of the smelling salts of decapitation.

I smashed their last bottle of Hemingway's cognac
over my bare feet.

Erect metal, malleable snake.

The grand plan commenced--

Lorelei spied meeklings until
their heads exploded against walls,
smiling. Shards of brains twinkling like stars.
All I wanted, now, were the stars
in my pockets to put in jars labeled
My Power of Mankind
and line them on shelves
next to sorry deer heads on plaques
and between gun racks and swords.

Herein, Herod took my Lorelei
by the neck, she peeped a screech
in my direction,
a flash of Judith Slaying Holofernes
cut through my mind.
My dress fell from gold to blue
to gold to nude, the viral
spectators were bulging and as I drew
my hands for slaying, disguised to the beat
of music. Visions of lost brains danced
in my head.
John the Baptist as the Headless Horseman
mocked my new dance move. Herod
cheered "Voila" to the heavens, exposing
purple bruises on Lorelei's neck, which
hurt less than her scream c/o dead German
sailors of accumulated centuries,
--as John the Baptist ran off with my head.