RUBY THE BIKER CHICK

I have a night club pig inside me
an intoxicated toxic beast
the spawn of all empires
as they lay to rest and die

The night club pig looks something like
Ruby the Biker Chick
who weighed two hundred pounds
had righteous American Tats
her mouth wide open in a laugh
Probably still got laid
because of that 3 a.m. laugh
which you need more than some other qualities
at that time

You could tell Ruby The Biker Chick
smoked and drank mercilessly
Her body a vessel for
constant brand name abuse,
more of a product victim, really,
than a
laser plastic surgery reconstructed citizen
Because except for the tattoos,
which the artist or another man probably picked,
she didn't much get to exert
her own fierce mutant aesthetic

My nightclub pig wants to always have
a cigarette, a beer, maybe a screw driver or
vodka grape - but nothing fancier
Wants to show off my bad tattoos
with skimpy tank tops
that no longer reveal much
but a beer belly

I want to laugh that loud booze cackle
you can hear in an Irish bar
at 3 in the morning
not to mention 3 in the afternoon
Want to stick one foot up
on the bottom of a bar stool
and put one hand in the back
of my corduroy flares

My nightclub pig staggers to the mirror
after the fifth beer
not just to make sure she's still there
as usual, but to confirm that
she is fuzzily, five beer beautiful
Three of the beers have bought for me
Two I broke down and bought with my own money
after waiting awhile
The nightclub pig wants to drown in noise, react with glee to
the truth
of over sensory stimulus,
kneel down and
put her ear to Lemmy from Motorhead's amp

My nightclub child's eyes saw the night club pig
get too bleached and old,
and forget to stop wearing
spandex body stockings
in the middle of the wrong trend,
and forget not to make out
spandex dryhumping
big sloppy wet french kissing
with guys in funny satin warm up jackets
and beards that never shoulda been there

My nightclub child saw Mary Monday selling
individual packages of her new 45,
with pink leopardette and safety pin packaging
I knew that nobody wanted them
She saw Lady Larue selling herself
with a blonde wig and stiletto heels
and silicone boobs and some fucking hack band
Mr. A, her husband
playing guitar with his teeth
one time every Tuesday set
and she knew that nobody really wanted
Lady Larue anymore either

I saw a magazine human interest photo of
My biker chick, Ruby
right after she got a terrible stomach cancer
Ruby was dying right in that bar
and laughing all the way
with those big, dimply, scrawled - on arms
standing with her arm around Bruce Springsteen

Ruby partied with that celebrity freak
like nobody else can anymore
Normally
Ruby helped Bruce escape
empty frenzied fans
with a couple of bouncers and a back exit.

You can tell from the Human Interest Blurb
Under the photo that
Ruby was so busy not opening her mail
and not being ready to pay the hospital
that it too her a few months
and her first attempt at an installment
to figure out that
Springsteen had already paid the damn bill.