Ode to skank skin and whore bones

Bug eyed Bennie used to work
in Uncle Zeke's video store
daydreaming about getting
his hook nose and buck teeth
fixed and taking his insatiable
hardcore sexual appetite right
to Hollywood and become a big
movie star fucking Madonna
from Monday through Friday
and coming home on weekends
to give out autographs for blow jobs
to the high school girls behind
the food shack at the drive in.

Hannibal Lecter’s his hero
and he's seen Silence of the Lambs
at least a hundred times stone cold
sober and another hundred times
fucked up on enough moonshine
to spike Cook County reservoir
and give Brauboro's census of 666
horny men, spent women and wayward
children free hooch from spring thaw
till first freeze but he figures his fame
will be all he needs to get the gals
to throw their wet panties at him once
his limousine pulls into Main Street.

And if the bitches don’t fall
in line like dominoes dropping
drawers till the cock bleeds
then it’s in the rusty old windowless
van for vintage one on one sexual
violence on vixen wanna bees
like Uncle Zeke’s snuff films
Bennie’s seen like a hundred
times in the old trailer by
the woods where all the shit
went down the day the cops
found them whore bones
and skank skin tanning.

Behind the prison glass
Uncle Zeke lectures that
a hunter as one with the earth
uses all his game and after a while
blood tastes just like salt water
and the spirits of the dead fuel
fantasies night after night of molding
mounds of flesh like kneading bread
and pinching nipples with clothes pins
before sticking Big Daddy in tight pink
till the geyser spouts from Moby Dick’s
blowhole in one last burst of pleasure
before the brain goes limp and dark

Driving back from Cook County
Penitentiary, Bennie’s tongue parched
like sandpaper so he pulls into a roadside bar
nameless but with a skull and crossbones on
the window and five shiny motorbikes in front.
Inside “Free Bird’s”  blasting and Bennie
remembers downing long neck Budweisers
with Nancy the nun in a honky tonk
long ago and dancing wild and free
to them fast Lynyrd Skynyrd guitar runs,
sweating with calves burning and hoping
to recover in the back seat of her Nova
but the nun would have none of that.

Same place a week after the last dance
Bennie walked in on Nancy wrapped
around Uncle Zeke against the jukebox
engaged in serious tongue and grinding
hips to “Fooled around and fell in love”
and every woman from there on in became
a whore who got what they deserve
from trusting Uncle Zeke and his tools
of the sex trade and every wet dream
Bennie had from there on traded cum
for blood and no tits, ass or pussy
in this dead end town could top the thrill
of pain perceived and otherwise.

“Free Bird” kicks into gear at the nameless
roadside bar and five gals strut out
of the lady’s room wearing nothing but
black stetsons and cowboy boots with spurs.
Boobs bigger than anything found on
the sticky pages of his Jugg's collection.
Asses hard enough to bounce silver
dollars off of and pussy juice gushing
down long legs like champagne fountains
in some well heeled rich bitch wedding.
Bennie tries to be movie star cool licking lips
and lifting brows but he ain't seen women like
this in the flesh and nearly bites his tongue off.  

Hard on swelling under torn blue jeans but mute
and spellbound, Bennie tries to swallow dry
spit as the amazon nude ringleader approaches
with handcuffs as two of the women turn him
around and pull his arms behind his back.
“Misogny is a sin,” says the boss lady cuffing
him roughly, and thrusting him out the door.
“M-Miss who?” stutters Bennie as the women rifle
through his pockets for keys before wrapping a red
bandana around his mouth and dragging him to the van
where they throw him in the back before driving an hour
to some barren field where they tie up his now naked body
to a tree and drive away leaving him for buzzards to feast.