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The Poetry Of.
...... Bill Campana



ELVIS DOES THE PROTEIN DANCE

the rubber chicken
the whoopee cushion
the chocolate moose
the inflatable lord
the final act...
his decomposing body
steering a bullet
through a tunnel of plaque.
it is then that satan
injects egg yolk
into the groin of elvis
commanding him to perform a protein dance
to the driving rhythms of america.
from the purple mountains
to a slapping run through a car wash
and it's all over town
and it's elvis this
and it's elvis that.
it's all over hell
and it's two sideburns over easy
with a bromide chaser.
a happy meal of pink and turquoise
french fried into stomach knots.
an all equipped cadillac
complete with backseat fondue.

(this is where elvis leaves the building)
42 is an ominous age.
42 took lenny bruce.
42 booked elvis on a death long tour
but it's not taking me.
i've got what elvis didn't have--
medical benefits with a second opinion package
and a wellness program.
with that, elvis might still be real
might still be elvis.
could be techno elvis.
could be fried chicken elvis.
might have a sterling silver pompadour
sterile and steel clad in a jump suit
so full of rhinestones and sequins
that at once, he would resemble
a lightning storm in a rock quarry.

could be hurricane elvis
hurling rock-a-billy debris.
sideburns and guitar picks
chicken bones and guitar licks
flying skillets and country biscuits
spinning banana sandwiches
deep fried in hair oil.

elvis, are you coming home?
elvis, are you in god's hell?
i know your name has more devil letters
than it has god letters...
and you are a powerful testimony
a tribute to bullshit.
you are a memphis tear on a velvet smear
gristle on a stick
a coke and a sneer.

elvis, are you in god's hell?
marilyn and judy are waiting for you
their skirts blowing
speaking in tongues to cell phone ghosts.
they are but carbon ground into old lovers
and they know you as do we
by the snap of your upper lip
and the sweet scent of fried lilacs
and pharmacutical crowder peas
boiled in god's hell.





LAMENT OF THE SWIZZ.(sing it with me)

i eat too much and
drink too much and fart too much
and don't sleep enough.

visa financed my
saturday morning bagel
oh boy, i'm wimpy

drive steaks through my heart
a side of scorn on the cob
boil the bitter root

the last straw is a
lot like the second to last
but with more swearing





CRASH, BANG, FREEDOM

traffic accident
intermingle in the intersection
headlights crushed into pavement
amber and red reflectors attempt dissipation
domestic and foreign cars roll passed
treading on the small american flag.





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