And what of those boys with bad skin, in Camaros,
ciggie butts snazzed up their sneers--
left, useless arm hanging halfway to hubcap,
other hand clutching a beer?
At eighteen, they left here, went cruising for angels
in towns with no names - like "Haiphong",
to cheer up those hoveled-down, domino bootie-boys
sandbagged by calls for reform.
No angel cum mannequin, backflushcunt angel can
ease their need for Cindy's charms.
What angels spit arrows? What's left to repair those
lost boys who we took back with stones?
Let's fill up the dime stores with beer, porn and leather
meat slatterned by pre-packaged sheen.
Have Harlequin Cindies shag packages, grimly
chant mantras to what might have been:
Inspire me, leftists! Remind me why cameras wept
cheers on the vandal-clad throngs.
I'd thrill once again to trill "tear-it-down" rhapsody,
gush to your vain call to arms,
stop seeking salvation in disparate measure,
let numbness salve holes left with guns--
live elegant life as I hoped I would find: one
more moonie coked up on darvon.