The Lamb Ran Away With the Crown

"you cannot reap unless you sow"

Given her Pythagorean triad
says Babs in a houndstooth huntress
anima number its Judee
for John Dee the real hippie
in out of the rain with
the rest of the ensemble
in the eggskull cave
of a stormy Gaslight cash-in
set inside a giant cake
where the fake wrench-shaped scar
of the corrupt chemist
is paired with the real scar
on Bogie's upper lip--
in every scene
its the only thing really "lit"--
leaving his hands (he thinks)
free to wander at will
back and forth &
back and forth between
the poison milk on the table
his thin silver belt,
a series of not quite lit
smokes & a half-inch
double thumbed
pantwaist insertion,
O he's guilty guilty
guilty alright--
of mailing it in bookrate,
writhing in his wingchair
jabbing the air with prepschool tics
until shoulderpadded Alexis Smith
hipfirsts toweringly in
swinging her gold David Hume turban
chain & giant buckle around until
his cowering leaves nothing
but the baked light of North Hollywood
through the grey of the background
of the background of the grey hills
& appearing from behind
an oak screen a skinny arm,
catching the last of it
with a pivoting obsidian mirror.