two

a song john fogerty did not sing on center field

like the old man down the road, only more

like u2 wants2, or they should... maybe someday

something once rocked my socks and rolled'm down

(something i hear in my heart's silent-shadow-song)

like I saw it on TV, hung above a favored bar, where

rock-n-roll girls lap dance and sing to bad-ass cunt-ry

between swallows of ecstasy and throw up in private

dancing room with a video feed and gorilla door pimp

collecting the house bread, dj's and barbitch's tips

real damage payed every time i kiss her sweet-ass-tattoo

or snort the sweat from the freckles of her breast

or lick the fussy dew of her navel down to Venus moon

she trembles realistic empathy, as my song-set ends

she smiles with silly sadness, jerks out my shirt tail

hiding the big wet spot soaking through my jeans

(we both laugh, because that is so fucking funny...

like someone in this shit hole would really give a shit)

she hangs on my orgasm limp arm, leads me into light


gulping down stiff shots, smoking killer weeds at the bar

watching her vacant eyes searching for more daily bread

stupid tears come into mine, the song flames... but dies

just one quick moment in her god damn sad knowing eyes

then her tongue tasted my tears before her next stage call

maybe she heard the music in my silent heart... the song

john fogerty, and all my heroes, did not ever sing

she danced for free at my table just before last calls

hugged me hard against her near naked body, and with

her small cold fingers feeling-up heart, bitch-sighed in my ear

"all i want is money... all i need... is to dance the song i hear"



( in my drunken dream that night

sex and love were exactly the same

and there i knew her completely

one honest and sweet lying whore

one who hears her own silent song)