It’s all thugs and Powermad
skidding to a stop on a desert highway
where Sailor and Lula jump and dance
and fade into dust and tumbleweed.
It’s love and love me tender.
Enter the Good Witch.
It’s all murder and mothers—
red-faced mothers—mad and envious
with a hit man, and a hit man,
and Lula’s screams that curdle
like her curls, like Sailor’s “Hell yeah!”
It’s robbers and manslaughterers.
It’s all Lynch mobs and dreamscapes
of passion and death and lipstick.
It’s wild at heart.
It’s weird on top.
It’s even stranger underneath.
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