far west will never can forget
what are we
(not dust nor cloud nor horseshoe print)
butch cassidy sundance kid tom mix
marshal dillon the lone ranger
to the market crash
or the ubiquitous neon signs
cheerfully saddening the city
hi-ho silver
what are we billy the kid buffalo bill quick draw
the good the bad john wayne
zorro ned kelly
the corduroy heroes
to secretarial miniskirts that look at you
with the face of ursula andress
(not dust nor cloud nor horseshoe print)
ps:
famous cowboys is all we are
riding out the hours across the plains of your back
whorehouse raid
(music by ry cooder)
while our bodies down up down
the whores ran to hide from the outlaws
and the bullets…………….glasses shattered…………….poker chips
playing cards on the ground
that guy who gets hit and slides down the bar
the shot to the cord that holds the chandelier
dead bodies everywhere the…getaway with gun in hand and prostitute in tow
and all the beer peanuts whisky and the cash register
the cloud of dust:
the distant train whistle…….handkerchiefs a-wave
the slight warmth of your skin like a question
the dry branches shaking in the town’s desertion
two days later the sheriff’s cowardly gold star emerges
the thirsty men ready the gallows
the outlaws and whores will have crossed texas already
shitfaced and stark naked thinking about opening a cathouse in ciudad juárez
back here: the pianola has lost its poise
our bodies down up down perfect engineering
and the saloon door is swinging shut
open
shut
open
brave men don’t set foot in barber shops: sue ellen
he wouldn’t give his life for hers
the real story goes more like this:
everywhere they hound him
the bankers want him dead
the shopkeepers to see him hang
he’s killed entire tribes
he’s blown up trains
emptied out bars safes
wolves don’t dare howl when he’s near
some say he’s aroused by the scent of lead
can smell money a mile off
eats meat raw
everyone says how they’ll see him
clean-shaved and well-dressed
out for a walk on a lady’s arm
on a sunday afternoon
(and the other whores cackled)
ned kelly one hot morning: norma lee
that morning he decided to raid the number three train
he cleaned the remington and the colt 45
and shoveled some hay for his horse
he jumped the bridge
a bright scarf across his face
firing shots left and right
carrying off passengers’ billfolds and jewels
the safe the gold
and he searched the aisles for me – in first class obviously –
(and you must be ned kelly, I thought)
he took my arm like slamming a door and I crossed all borders
to dance with him in an oasis
where he earnestly set about tearing off my panties with his teeth
…
(and the whores cackled some more)
to a nose:
did you ever imagine this butch
no sundance this doesn’t smell right to me
then they took my legs mounted me as many times as they wanted they filled me with beer and they sucked on my body all over the fools drank from my breasts the most sparkling elixir the most delicate alcohol in my body galloping they plowed a league the impotent canons of moaning complaint: they were useful they opened me they rode me across the plains their eyes glued to me: they scratched their names into my skin: they lassoed and domesticated every moment of my speech and away they went leaving their shirts thrown over the folding screen:
(sue ellen norma lee susan saint-john and marijane malone pretended they couldn’t understand scarlett o’hara del mar’s words: they didn’t laugh just kept passing the bottle)