Wild West

My Buffalo girl is a bird of paradise who turns out to be an aural vampire tone-deaf to mute spin. On rainy nights, skyscrapers nil, she’s all saori destiny and melancholy squeeze box. When she slaps me with jungle or tooth organically grown nails, it’s to let me know that she’s anti-Metal and she ain’t no BaBe with backhorn. I offer her a baroque love, devoid of funky monkey and boom, bump and gRind. Too trigger on pistol valve, she shoots my iceman. Come back, plastic porno princess, we are both rats and stars. She’s all cool, z-chick and pink lady smile. I hold up my hands. I’m no Jello Biafra. I was once a blood stained child.