Taking Off My Demon Shoes
Firstly the alligator belt has to go.
The highly polished pearl handled pistol
should not be on my slim hips
in a kindergarten.
I’m swearing of sugar and rum.
Blue suede shoes were never that cool anyway,
I have left several pairs at the back of a thrift shop
with a five dollar bill.
Wearing shades in February is not working for me anymore.
I’ve taken off the tassels of my dude cowboy shirt.
I have moved into Ohio
filling every available space with my yellowing soul;
have filed my fangs down to the size of gummy bears.
We (my huge prosthetic breasts and I),
have joined a Pentecostal church
and now babble eloquently in an angelic tongue
only fully known to rabid squirrels.
Constant prayer has turned my **** eruptions
into pure helium
and am now gainfully employed blowing up party balloons
in a local Dollar Store.
When the good Lord calls me I will be found
balancing precariously on the head of a pin
at last fully masked and surgically prepared for
my heavenly colonoscopy.
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