Stupid fucker by Sissy Buckles

yeah that’s me
alright, walking around
with my love
blinders on once again
wishing that his desperado
yackety yak
has just gotta be
bona fide like that erstwhile
beau of mine, Hawk
(whose real name was Jim) and
always reminiscing
about old kicks and grins
back when he proudly flew
his colors to impress
the chickadees at
Dumont’s tavern aforetime
proprietor Eunice got his felony
conviction and a prison
sentence to boot,
ironic painted flames
crimson licking the
crumbling plaster facade
outside the very same building
on El Cajon Boulevard
two doors down from
their clubhouse that the feds
blew up a few years back;
then, too high on weed
and trying to push me off the
back of his bike while
riding through Anza-Borrego’s
arid wasteland for some
bogus paranoid
reasoning filled with
illogical fallacies
and loosely cobbled
ancient biker grievances and
all the while thinking
you’ve actually seen a man
who could by God stand
on his own two feet
how high the moon?
But I have no ill
feelings in my
heart honey, I know
it’s a rare
individual who can
face the stark
accusations of the
callous world and look
I completely
understand your fear
and trembling dread
when the outlaws
challenge your precious
status quo you know
I can be sympathetic
as hell but man, don’t even
try to gaslight me
so you come out smelling
like a rose.
Shit won’t fly, that’s it
yet, so easy
just to be cool
with things but it’s
always the same sorry
con story, folks
dragging the world down
to feed their own
repressed trip,
stealing joy,
bleeding offal and crap
merrily along
the moral highway the
bell tolls
for thee cholo
Kell Robertson’s
trigger finger
is more renegade
than you’ll ever be,
and class politics
aside you should have
just treated me
like a queen
I don’t ask for much
how truly simple
could that not be?
But this morning
I woke up
fiercely Greek as
Aeschylus’ Clytemnestra,
refreshingly vicious,
grimly unrepentant and
emancipated in her
grief surveying the
wreckage she made
all by herself,
I’ll show you transparency
pal, one more nail
in my coffin, see don’t
you understand
my life is a fugitive
train and I’m just trying
to get it back
on the damned rail
the word ‘traitor’
on the tip of all their
filthy tongues and always
waiting for the next hard
rain to fall, still
wondering what I do
so bad
just acting
like you,
some infatuation costs
way too much,
and hyperventilating sweet
relief palpable
rushing from my dark
blonde roots to
chipped blue polished
fingernail tips pointing at
the next right indicated thing
is to plug in my 1980s
vintage Peavey garage
hair band amp
and ebulliently
shake up
the neighbors again

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