Bitter Porch Troll
in the line for The Porch
"Is this the reservation line?"
"Do you have a reservation?"
"Ah, would you mind if we get in line here?"
"Yes. I do mind. "
"We do have a reservation. "
"You can go to the back of the line. "
"Ah, okay we'll be stepping in right here then. "
Bitter Porch Troll disappeared with a grimace in a puff of toxic smoke.
The whatnot in the wheelchair w his straw hat.
Yoko Ono stands a step at his 7 o'clock
in a white-woman's circular sombrero;
ain't a rice-paddy any closer than a peanut-sized prostate.
(more on this later)
like a forever-married couple,
financial analyst frat-boy
flips his filterless backwards &
slips it in his lips,
whatnot takes a draw.
Gargantua vampyra w her femoral-vein
shrapnel side of beef lolling like a
city-block slab o tongue,
over the delicate rim of her defenseless espresso cup.
Her teeth like a tornado-tore pickup-sticks of a wrought-iron fence.
Vampyra holler-hawking blowjobs
through the Double-AA grandstands,
like the Pabst Blue Ribbon guys,
to the underage Cracker Jack kids.
Dessicated ex-cheerleaders shod in spikes
Finishing school failures holding their wrong forks four-fingered,
forward in her foxhole,
like retarded railroad spikes blindfolded at cringe at cower
for the coming hammer-blow,
at the sweet young things in short skirts &
Every man in the crowd, not a pocketful of shells
rallying 'round the family,
their trophy wives a-tarnishing,
the pocketbook full at burst with the
wife's Valium in her valise,
his steroids & sundry stiffeners,
takes a number for his stroll to the Flo-Max Fountain.
Ain't a slender prostate within a mile of the rail or the boxes,
ain't a prostate smaller than a cinderblock
recently quit jobs to spend more time w the family.
Ain't a off-white face in here ain't hopeless
for tips that ain't worth shit and going home still illegal,
alien and petrified of the turn-signal traffic stop.
This war-wizened Wicca
married outta her
hometown W-2 ghetto.
There's The Treatment. The Product. The Augmentation.
The hats are nests wove by eye-bleeding demented birds.
Them nouveau-gauche in their Safeway sunglasses,
Target totes and exorcism tattoos;
crafty cutlery, or
their choice of adult beverage.
The high-heeled little girls,
their hope-chest hymens come high-five unhinged,
the anus still between us,
and also with us,
the rectum pre-speculum.
the rosebud as yet un-rodded.
Hats that hang like sodden cigarettes
like mutant birds-of-paradise tweak'd in jersey brownfields
like palsied partridges plucking the wrong plumes
pick-pocketed war bonnets, them
Them ladies w smiles peeled personal-trainer tight &
kerosene tits set to ignite, &
strafe their hometown superfund site.
A hundred-grand in hairspray around here and bloody marys.
And not a ounce o chew chaw and nowhere to spit
Tampon men in their tasseled kicks.
Oddly sweet the buddy
putting his cigarette between his wheelchair-whatnot buddy's lips
The woman in the Woodford Reserve Cal's-Here-Every-Year Bar,
her bloodstain of an eruption of a hat &
she gets tear-eyed, tear-stained at the taps,
was her horse that won;
she looked all overtaken
like the little girl loved a horse,
The pretty brown-haired blue-eyed debutante in the walker.
You could put it down to a skiing accident.
But it's August. And she's canted at 60 degrees off-camber
It's been some time.
If she's game it shall be a sore-month swore more
before any uprighting of the score,
shoes that wear the same and
children to come that come without blame.
Her hat is a planetary gear,
it quakes w fear,
at the scent her interplanetary pull
He is of the Placid Lake Club,
his blonde unblonde w her whitewall'd tubeless pneumatic lips.
"I'm a white girl w no ass. Fix it. Alfredo, did you hear me?!?"
"What about the guy did your tits?"
"He's not an ass man, ass-wipe. "
"Okay. Okay. "
"Alright, so my stepsister says she knows a guy, does beach-balls over on the upper east side, you know over by the UN. "
"The what 'n'?"
"Oh, fuck. Never mind. "
"Shapiro's the guy. Give him a call."
"You do it. "
"What'd you say?"
"You call him."
"Not just 'no'. 'Fuck no! It's not my ass we're talking about here"
"You're a real shit you know that. "
The fat boy w the Bellagio polo shirt, XL.
The poison pretty boy w highlights in his swept-back hair, his tailored slim cut short sportcoat, the cigar held like a magnate the can o Coors the quiet girlfriend cowed
The colt-leggèd girls,
never see the dawn,
the heifers in curls,
no bolt-on, no spray-on,
The former fly about in wealthy whorls.
The silver. The white gold. The platinum. The stainless steel. The cast iron. The annealed steel. The aluminum foil.
The crystal. The cubic. The zirconia. The diamond. The quartz.
The pyrites. The geodes.