by Sycamore Smith

Jackie's on his back
The lights are bright like golden spikes in iron tracks
And all the while, smoke is pouring from his stack
As a Cadillac peels out in the grass
He's chewing up his chops
He's always running 'round in circles through the crops
He dropped his darling at the bottom of the pops
I guess he's taking back his god-given ass
You're the apple of his vacant stare
And when he opens his mouth
All you hear is dead air
Old Jackie's on his back, and one day Jack
Is gonna be on your back, too
Jackie's on his knees
He reaches up and gives the cloud of smoke a squeeze
The world's a beast, and he is sucking off the fleas
As his pompadour is coming unglued
La-di-da, he starts to sing
He loads a hollow point bullet in a sling
He slips a wedding ring on to the raven's wing
And then drips a drop of vampire food
Finally, he stands
He's got a pair of pink tarantulas for hands
He ties a tourniquet to something in his pants
And pulls an eagle-foot bouquet from his coat
But when he turns to toss it, he slips
He shuts his eyeballs and he flaps his bony hips
A hazy shadow sort of locks on to his lips--
That's the devil blowing smoke down his throat