Donkey Punch

Even I know the silent corrupt joy of a deserted town with clinking adobe brick alleys,
And silent yellow lamps,
And as this is no movie, there are no London-type fogs telling of a grave lurking evil.
None of that flagrant nonsense, you see.
This town is its most miraculous when it is devoid the wandering and gathering.
There is honest music at the Iron Monkey nightly congress too,
Honest wives,
Honest rum and coke,
Honest whores,
It is god’s best work,
Amazing Grace, How Sweet the Sound,
The church is in me, it never leaves.

Mongrels, demons, the meter maids, they go easy now,
Life’s pains are dim or imagined, they share your bed.
You have got to love the night before Thanksgiving,
The cold air is heavy with broken hearts and sweet aromas,
Whores smell the gathering thunderstorm, too.
Lovers hate what the silence truly brings,
Kith and kin gather around graven images,
The laughter is robust or slaved,
Queers, poets and misfits roam the face of the earth with scars on foreheads,
I pace this street too, hands in deep pocket, rubbing my nickels, smoking a Camel,
The church is in me, it never leaves.

Walking behind this bible-belter woman is a thing of joy,
And her rotund gift, such fine company,
I am thankful for this, you see.
The church is in me, it never leaves.

But right around this slap-slap joint of felonious bearded husbands,
Men with missing eyes and greasy teeth,
She pulls one on me,
She comes up with this brilliant idea,
To test another man’s larger-than-life readiness to defend his righteousness,
She picked a large one.
I am no hero, I think to myself.
Tis not a good Missouri night to die on baby,
Worse too, if this street be Nigerian.

She stands and awaits my valiance,
The men stop beholding
That I will take a shining for you baby is a toxic theory,
But who can blame her,
I had earlier on cooked up some valorous speech to win her night,
Perhaps a very deluxe expectation, you see.

Perhaps she had thought me a better gorilla,
You must not know the color of my crazy little woman,
Even this eludes me now.
Mothers lie, you know, mothers lie.
Telling of an invented beauty,
And life concurs too.
Life will concur with anything, you know.

But I know the truth.
The church is in me, it never leaves.
The men that live long are the ones who did not go to war for some
Glorious vaginal conquest,
Ask your father, he knows best.
This is not one of those very great reveals, you see.
Mothers lie, I know this by smell.

I walk past the big man, my hands heavy besides me.
The church is in me, it never leaves.
I pray he lets me go, this he does,
They laugh,
Tis not a good Missouri night to die on baby,
Worse too, if this street be Nigerian.
She comes around the corner with serious questions.
I tell her our business here is done.

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