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A Psalm for the Brothers of the Death Squad Mfg. Co.

Juan-Paolo Perre

Sunglasses and a Brillo-ed beard

Wild strands which no one knows

are really spun gold

Drowsied and sopping wet

from almost drunk cans of Miller Hi-Life or Milwaukee’s Best

with its aluminum slick with a backwash of warm hops, tar, sweat and spit.

A helmet, no a crown

over a head wrapped in a filthy bandana of raw silk

like a Viking roller on a great sea-faring Harley

With a new quiet kind of conquering goal –

The rebel kind more anarchy than pillage

with hoarse brazen calls

Resentful of the lady friend that moved on

Too afraid of the constant rumble – the vibe

between her legs straddled too long

and a throttle more loquacious

than any Hell’s angel –

Horny to open up

on more and more open road

Under a black night desert sky

Crowded with the starry eyes

of a thousand dead bikers, brothers

Bones ground to sand

Broken bottle shards like diamonds

and smoke.