Main Lines, Blood Feasts, and Bad Taste - Lester Bangs [158]
palpitating pussy which after the fuck is over will get up drained and spent and wrecked and bent from the hotel room bed where I will be watching your ass wobble like Tina Louise's whole body on any old episode of Gilligan's Island, I will see you there naked and vulnerable defenseless and somehow slightly sad as all humans are in the dawn light after sex, I will watch you walk away from my spent joyjuice delirium through Egyptian-coin lidded eyes, I looking like someone shuttered and boxed by the heaviest of drugs not even invented yet, drugs that will make heroin look like the Fat Albert Show, and you with your tight white little ass disappearing from my yearning yet basically jaded because knowing (have known) eyes, across the room, into the half shadows of the distant oh so long-gone hopeless land between the closet where your halter top hangs and the bathroom where inside the medicine cabinet are Percodans and Valiums I’m gonna need badly as ever in about 20 minutes, because this is a hangover for the books, that's why I’m publishing it in this one, I have drunk cognac of your slushing slit and drunk on the realization of this dream I realize there is nothing left for me now in life at all by listening to old Neil Young and Strawberry Alarm Clock albums at 78 on a turntable that rotates counterclockwise, you have murdered my heart by gobbling my cock Cherie, so I will drink the sweat off my eyeballs in my cupped palm as I watch you walk across the room, step lithe as the child you are which is why I wanted to defile you in the first place, into your purple silk panties with the little face of Dewey Duck on the pudendal mound (Huey and Louie grew up to turn out homos, they’re on Fred Halsted ballcruncher jockstraps worn by Sylvester Stallone because it's the only way he can get it up to fuck Ernest Borgnine who is his personal fantasy), I see you step lightly like a ballerina as Van Morrison said in Astral Weeks an album you’re too stupid to appreciate, into the barely Kleenex-thick foliage designed to hide your own holy vibrant foliage, then into your hip huggers which I wish you wouldn’t wear because they look so square but baby I don’t care, I wouldn’t love you if you weren’t corny as hell and at least seven years behind the times, then into the closet reaches your pale thin arm for that halter with the Fonz's face in living color on it right between your tits because just like any other patriotic all-American girl you’re religious and render unto Caesar the tremulous titty-banners that he only deserves, followed of course by the passage of your delectable heels which not 15 minutes ago I licked like they were the snocones of heaven into your high-heeled stiletto pumps which are as red as the blood of Idi Amin's victims who were found stuffed up in the dam of Lake Victoria with their rubbery water-rutted decomposing bodies swaying gently in the silent ever-slowing currents of the pitiless undersea, I see those suckable sintwinkle toes slide into them pumps like a switchblade into a Spanish sheath contrived by a Puerto Rican assassin of Rockefellers and Beames and hidden deep in his belt lining or interior boots were made for walking, where you out now out the door I see you walking strutting like a minxlynx sheena banshee bitchess rape-job expert leaving another decimated cock in your wake, and as you close the door behind you to go be interviewed by Rolling Stone and tell Ben Fong-Torres what a great lay I am I roll over in ennuidal despair and close my eyes tight as canned laughter just so I can open my mouth and let out a moan so long and low and lonely they could hear it over their Cheerios in Topeka. George Jetson, recently migrated to manage a Kansan Q-tip dispensary, dropped his spoon into his breakfast bowl where it splashed thru soggy cereal to smack commemorative JFK in the face at the bottom, and with tears in his eyes said to his wife Irma (he divorced the one on the cartoon show when he found out she was a lesbian disco deejay with pierced nipples depending rusty “I Like Ike” buttons) (you wouldn’t wanna