i’m pot crocodile.
in my current form i’m a creepy wreck.
bow tie, green boots, lilac ribbon around my tail
to let them all know. pot habit, cream-cake gorging snappy jaw,
long brown teeth, foul breathe. scare away the body lice;
make the ice dealers soar to the moon;
the smack pushers float into space.
pot is plenty sliding downtown. duck into familiar weed den.
quick! big ounce on special. he doesn’t take my coin;
freebie for me. throws bags at me, on me. hydro, outdoor,
afghani blonde, bombay black, mullumbimby madness;
the fucking lot. customers in caftans and pointy hats watching
as i tug a bong or ten. throw fading newspaper clippings
and dusty awards from my long gone fame into a pile
with ice rock scraps dragged out from the bedroom
while some sissy in stilettos screams celebrity murder.
continue down main street trumpeting loud.
dope-face, coffee drinking crocodile has-been whore
on the move again; seriously watch me bitches.
this grubby old reptile is back. into the café and not a whisper
as i slide by and flick my tail. then cheers
of here he is again. they know and i know they know.
a transvestite in lilac, she shrieks. i tell her
it’s a ribbon, not a dress. i wore a pink wedding dress yesterday
and you all thought i was cruising muscle trade.
so wrong! they cruise me, dearies. remind them
lilac ribbons means more than useless gender play.
fuck, they should know my game by now. i do anything i want!
chubby bears load me up with long blacks, pull open my jaws,
pitch them in; feeding a sleazy reputation to die for;
heard about my sleeping swamp and what goes on all night.
i’m not hiding a thing. you are the art world
snitching two-faced elitists. not me. i fucked off
and did it my way. roar. meow. bark. cluck. yelp. snarl;
animal mockery wins. have a drag on this i scream
at some falling theatre players who cringe in disgust.
fucking wow! success means shit. only lost moments are real.
sneak out with full tail sweep. applause from the soap stars
and their junkie followers; ditched out like me and loving it.
they know the score. smash the door down with a high note
shriek, nudge the crooked cop who runs fast taking aim
with his gun at a whining has-been poet. peeps cross the path
with faces in iphones as i gallop back to my swamp.
sexy, free-loader musician on my back for the ride,
strumming away on my neck. stay up there
and you can fuck me later. yes, i bottom when they beg or pay.
manly passives are all the rage, so he said. so i’m in big-time.
bank teller actors and checkout chick rent-boys look away;
hope and fear that crocodile’s chant might suck them all in
again. show them that a slutty pot-head crocodile, sniffing
poppers with a pretty new lizard who he hooked up with
via a grindrrr in his lair of whatever goes
is not something to turn a snout up at. dangerous stuff chaps!
keep away or he’ll drag you in to his muddy hell,
a ballerina sings outside my swamp, but pats my jaw
with love. i nip her and she twirls as i slide
into my watery jungle. get a life sister. stop.
fuck! i need pot. look! smiling alligator approaching
with turquoise ribbon around his tail, pushing a trolley
full of golden buds. i’m reminded of fading dreams so i whistle
him over for more. he’s hot, and has an awesome cock
and a bag of rock. this could be perfect… hot cock, white rock.
about time for something terrific; pot crocodile deserves
the best. i’m dying fast. i never hurt a fly with my bonging-on;
only myself. you all know that. and then the ballerina crawls
over and asks if she can join us. what did you say? oh, ok.
of course sweety-pants. but nil funny business. i share my gear
with anyone. well no, actually, not anyone, but i will with you
and him, but no threesome sugar-plum. he’s all mine; a top
with a body like that; seriously! never share my men.
nice tutu… by the way. is that a shade of purple, or lavender?
fuck, i’ve got a headache. pack the bong! one, two, three!
was that dribble genuine, or not?
i say and do crazy shit… on pot.
sorry… but i am pot crocodile