52. Bitching About Axl

- Hey man, do you think Axl is maybe talking too much shit on stage right now?
- How do you mean?
- You know, all this bitching and moaning between songs - like he’s always got a point to prove.
- I guess.
- You guess? Didn’t you hear him last night, cussing out the security and the promoter?
- The promoter was an asshole though.
- He was an asshole but that stuff he said about his deformed arm was way out of order.
- I guess.
- And the way he socked that kid in the Motley T-shirt with the mic stand. The poor kid had to have brow stapled. I don’t know, it just feels like we’re the backing band sometimes, like in the press it’s always ‘Axl Rose & Guns N Roses’, when it should just be – you know…
- Guns N Roses?
- Exactly. None of this would matter, if it wasn’t turning him into such a fuhrer. I mean, I like Kiss.
- So do I but what do you want me to say, he’s a redhead with issues – that aint nothing new!
- Yeah, but he used to be fun.
- Yeah, you’re right there. He’s definitely become an asshole. But we’re selling out shows aren’t we?
- I guess.
- You guess?
- And we’re selling records? Loads of fucking records.
- Yeah.
- And we’re getting our socks blown most nights?
- Most mornings too…
- Well, then.
- Well, then.
- So are you going to shut the fuck up and do this line?
- I still think he’s turned into an asshole.
- Me too. And life is fucking great ain’t it?
- I give us eighteen months.
- That long?

25. The Cathouse

Power lines buried deep beneath
feed energy to twisted strips
of neon; close up they are a jumble
of abstractions, but step back to the
bar beneath the icy air-con curtain
and the lurid letters spell out two
words in gaudy, suggestive italics:
The Cathouse.

Here the cats totter on heels like
sabre toothed tusks, wrap
boa legs round polished poles
and thrust poodle-trimmed pussies
with pelvic precision from floor
to mirrorball sky and back again
for men with crooked teeth and
pudgy fingers and alligator wives

laid languidly in condo homes.
The cats are creatures of rare talent,
re-born with names like fine wines
or cheap paintings or pawned gemstones:
Ebony, Chardonnay,
Crystal Clear, Amber Sunrise,
Little Magenta, Silicone Sally,
Aqua Surprise.

And in the midst of this menagerie
I sit, slumped upon my drink
dreamily feeding folded notes
into the hip-side slot between
thong and flesh, a little drunk,
a little jaded but perfectly at home
in this corrupted crèche, this playground
of strays, fugitives, chimeras, runaways.

10. Sunset, '83.

The light is different here.
The way it permeates and
penetrates like crooked lasers
bending around buildings that
perch over the city like mirrored
watchtowers keeping all that
ugliness at bay (a barrier between
the wealthy and the needy)
it reminds me of the ants I used to
burn beneath a magnifying glass
in that godforsaken hole of
a backyard they called Indiana, 74.