Red Tin Noodles

I stalk this region. I’m the rule that runs this game.
Like darts of icy wind I whistle through your brain.
I drive you to the street with eyes red and insane.
You might do anything to loose my ball and chain.
And my name is pain. Desperation’s my terrain.
Pain. Like needles running through a vein.
I won’t deceive you like a lover gone astray.
I’ll never leave you, though you scream, "please go away."
Unless I’m satisfied, I’ll haunt your every day.
You’ll buy me guns and drugs and anything I say.
And my name is pain. No use to cry again.
Pain. Endless is my song’s refrain.

Jack Ruby was promised
a big boat for his deed,
but got sent up the river,
a patsy, too, indeed.
His killing of Lee Oswald
was an undercover job.
But never trust your cover
when your bed’s made by the mob.

He elbowed his way up to the bar
and said, "Bartender, can I have a coke?"
He wore a suit of crimson like a star
and said, "Excuse me, can I bum a smoke?"

I seemed to recognize him
and he acted like a friend.
I felt that we’d grow closer
before this night would end.

Now I’ve been drinkin’ all night but I’m gonna be okay.
I’m down to several singles and a fiver.
He offered me a lift because he’s going just my way.
The devil is my designated driver.

He said I’d had enough drinks for tonight
and took me outside to his hell mobile.
Into the death seat I was buckled tight.
And satan then climbed in behind the wheel.

I looked into his glowing eyes
and felt a little woozy.
I’ve had hallucinations, but,
man, this one was a doozy.

Now I’ve been drinkin’ all night but I’m gonna be okay.
He’s guaranteed I’ll be a safe arriver.
I don’t know where I’m going and it’s much too late to pray.
The devil is my designated driver.

There is no future left in transformation.
You’re met with insolence and condemnation,
the awful tearing sound of separation ,
and constant knocking causing bad vibration.

Too late to move, there’s just too big a stockpile.
So watch the sky and keep a hand on that dial.
No need to wear a purgatorial grin.
The world has cloaked its civil servants in sin.

(chorus)
Oh, the dead can’t rhumba to the bomb.
They don’t know what they’re missing.
Oh no, the dead can’t rhumba to the bomb.
Hear those elements hissing.

The movies tell you all about survival.
They make it seem just like a Dead revival.
They say the strong who want to stay alive will
hang on perhaps a minute more than I will.

Too late to politic, the lines are frozen.
By atom smashers we have all been chosen.
No need to wear a radiation-proof suit.
Disintegration makes the clothing point moot.
(chorus)

Honor hunkers in the alley of the apes,
eager to commence her new withdrawal.
Anytime violence bleeds the people,
she’s on a train, lit out for parts unknown.
She covers the land like a hesitant dusk,
always sitting on the next ticket.
She rocks from side to side in changeling wind,
dark eyes testing the horizon for escape routes.
As now she stands, impenitent,
breathing the next evolution.

A kleptomaniac
takes things and won’t give back.
A robber often uses force
and risks a stint in jail, of course.
Pickpockets stick to wallet stealing,
in your pants without you feeling.
Thieves now don’t take property.
They snatch your own identity.
So guard your cash and information.
Criminals do prowl our nation.

She used the office fax machine
to reproduce her parts.
Her arm was just magnificent.
Her leg was off the charts.
She sent a xerox of her foot
to some guy with a fetish.
He telephoned quite quickly
but she acted all coquettish.
She sent an image of her hand
to guys who might buy rings.
She got back several fingers
and assorted other things.
At last she sent, as was her bent,
a copy of her face.
The one reply that made her cry
said she should model mace.

At last there was a sorrow
we could not throw a rope on.
The barn burners
left cuff links in the ash.
The funereal nimbus appeared.
This was the ticket
no one wanted, a nightmare
out of left field.
We were chained by the memory
and imprisoned in silence.
Each time a bird flew
we thought of the enemy.
A moat of tears
and an army of smoke
were no protection
from a vast broken ideal.

Another departed holiday
is all over the cellar floor:
the miniature tree, plastic
holly strands and boxed effigies.
Stockings once hung with care
and the odd ornamental ball,
all dead to the mind
until next December,
now go through their long season
of mildew and moth,
a synthetic nature
caught amongst a dark forest
of old tools and toys,
awaiting its cyclical rebirth.

All file cabinets look the same
to one in the shoveling game.
I was yanked off the main land,
fitted with a tight armband,
ordered to alphabetize
words I didn’t recognize.
If I worked for just an hour,
I could take an ice cold shower.
Then, they said, if I worked two,
they would let me sniff some glue.
Random subjects seemed to reign.
Boss was masked and looked insane.
Papers filled up several rooms.
I was really zonked on fumes.
Next I knew, a fire started.
In the smokescreen, I departed.
Found a boat and rowed to shore.
I don’t wanna file no more.

We need a sharp-edged ruler,
who can spy upon us, too,
a real protective leader,
a Governor Gumshoe.
He’ll pound his dreaded gavel
if we have too much fun.
Then, if we don’t settle down,
he’ll go and get his gun.
He’ll walk the streets at night time,
eliminating crime,
and call his own electorate
a thieving vermin slime.
And when the next election time
comes rolling ’round again,
He’ll make damn sure that you vote.
He’ll make sure that he’ll win.
We need an upright ruler
who’ll control all things we do,
a regular dictator,
a Governor Gumshoe.

An early interception
changed the game’s complexion.
After two substantial kicks,
the spread was back up to six.
Looked as if the football gods
once again had nailed the odds.
But a short-pass-fueled long drive
kept the comeback dream alive,
up until a late-game sack
by a blitzing cornerback
made a last hope necessary,
sixty-seven yard hail Mary.
Interference on the one!
Two ticks left, they called the run.
A billion betters’ knees were weak
as the defense stopped the sneak.
Both teams’ players shed some tears.
Best damned game in fifty years.

Satchmo, Miles, ‘Trane,
Pharoah, Diz,
tell you what a player is.
Sacramental blue high notes,
wails and honks and sailing boats.
Silence, violence, bleep to bawl,
horn of plenty says it all.
Horn of plenty, Blue Note, Verve,
hits a raw religious nerve.
Every time that these cats blow
God is putting on a show.
Horn of plenty, hear that sound,
six feet off or under ground.

Corporal Geometry
informed Private Equation,
"W’ell have to take Right Angle Hill
if we’re to save this nation."
But Major Addition
said there was one condition.
It seemed Sergeant Subtraction
had seen too much combat action.
So Colonel Long Division
made a tactical decision.
Send Captain Algebra
up the hill as last hurrah.
"His men aren’t averse to dying,
and they’re always multiplying."
General Mathematics states,
"He wins who better calculates."

I woke up rooted to the ground,
within sight of no industry.
A farmer with a shovel came
across the field and stared at me,
said, "If you grow and blossom,
that’s the only way you will get free."
And so I pledged my earthbound life
to vegetable reality.

There is no proper substitute
for a good yodel parade.
Mountain men and cowboys
come from every glen and glade.
They flock into the town of choice
to try to win some prizes,
with their yodel-a-hee voice
in bodies of all sizes.
You’ll get some folks from Switzerland
and several from Peru.
And each is glad to show you
what their crackling voice will do.
The decibels raised by their yells
send livestock on the run.
Y’all come down to Comstock,
’cause this weekend starts the fun.

The groundhog sees his shadow and we’re all for six weeks doomed.
Whose idea was it to have this poor beast exhumed?
There must be other rodents on whom we could pin our luck,
something not quite so skittish as the underground woodchuck.
Perhaps we’d be much better off in dragging from its hole
an animal unfazed by sun, most probably a mole.
Or maybe shadows aren’t the things that make him want to hide.
It could be all those guys in top hats dragging him outside.
The whistle pig has this big gig that helps decide our fate.
It would be great if on this date we just let him sleep late.

Gravitational update indecisive,
as indicated by floating peas,
bees sucked into dark holes
and seas flat, motionless.
Whilst in theory we madly spin,
the rope simply hangs.
Beyond the kicking legs of swingers,
the street is dead. The trees just shed.
And now rocks spit from the earth,
stars burst and islands disappear.
Tears fall up like rain reversed.
And the crops move around underground.

I knew a woman who got things all wrong.
She’d quote a poem, say it was a song.
She’d call a gong a bell, a bell a gong.
She’d go on much too much and much too long.
She’d call a club a spade and diamond heart.
She thought that all things lemon were too tart.
Some things she knew were wrong, yet knew by heart.
She’d call time out before you’d even start.
She didn’t even know the time of day.
A one way street would cause her much dismay.
One never knew just what strange thing she’d say.
"Do you need help?" she’d ask. I’d say, No way!"

Whatever you do,
don’t go near the quints.
They’ll pluck your eyes
and grind them into mince.
Born to evil
and grown madder since,
their very presence
makes one want to wince.
It’s just as if the devil
split in fives.
Those who near them
soon break out in hives.
They’ll pick your pocket
and they’ll pinch your wives.
Of course they always carry
guns and knives.
Whatever you do,
don’t go near the quints.
Consider these as warnings,
not just hints.