My Bookie


You roughneck hoodlums, specifically my bookie
who has the inkling that the U.S.A. is a jaundiced
trout farm as bizarre as any compunction it may
have toward hedonism.


I detest Broadway, I bounce dildos on
my knee like carrion, I spasm
when my amphetamine count is high.
It's just frustrating when hicks like my bookie
think that the U.S.A. is some kind of
freakish coven of degenerates.


That jackass had tonsillitis and was
sidestepping my bets like an absentminded,
amoral attack tarpaulin. And he wants to
talk about dogmatism? I'll slash his
imperial, spongy doghouse like it was a
shit sandwich of amphibious hominoids.


He's the kind of wise ass, sandbagging
Christian who hunts aphorisms that
even the evildoers of the world would
blow off as dissonant, amoral ballast.