“The Brat Prince”
Gnats fly too. And termites flutter lamps like rain.
Roaches in the Marigny and pigeons in Lee Square.
What shall the brat prince dare have me pronounce?
First, you’re right I’m not some uptown millionaire.
Indulge a minute of your pedicured and fancy life
a moment when you remember you were poor once.
Even though your brand of poor was rich (somebody
in you family gambles all that wealth away). I’m a kid
from the gutter never had what wasn’t earned or taken
and you’re mistaken if you think a little ego mixing
with your whine repeals two centuries of hearing
blown-up and debunked exploits of Lester Lioncourt.
To me, your fangs are fragile as glass. I squeal when
people talk about your days chained in that swamp.
Gator farmers keep their stock alive with chickens
and I couldn’t think a better fate for someone talks
on websites and in books about his crime than seek
the person out who calls them on their shit. Hey Les,
you know I’m always drinking at the Saturn Bar.
Instead of taking time to make yourself sound great,
why not fly down here and see who know what’s up?
For a badass famous bloodsucker you sure do spend
a lot of time in front of mirrors sucking on your thumb.
The two creations you lament used poison you provide—
aristocratic pomp and fluff turned sour when inspected
by the noisy set of workers tasked to do your dirty work.
And Lester, don’t deny it here. Murder is just dirty work
to you made regal in a tongue that sings its greatness.
Your words turn sour in my ears. I think that you been
reading books too much to think you’re scary or sublime.
Despite your laundry list of crime (all misdemeanors
no meaner than a trust fund wonder muscling bucks
from kids whose fathers had to work) You are not
a synonym for grief. When people turn your records off
which sounds like metal shovels picking up mule shit
from quarter gutters, I sigh and find relief. Some PR
wizard turns you into something that you’re not.
Those of us from the gutter watching all this time
remain unimpressed. If you think that you’re the only
game in town, than, pretty boy, you done forgot
that death is all important to this place. The bayou
isn’t big enough for both of us. Though none replace
the handsome devil wearing shirts as nice as dresses
or silver jeweled adornments all the girls desire,
more teeth and less tongue in vampires I require.
Synonym for grief, perhaps, to people who enjoy
good books or music you pathetic hack. Real death
is not some song and dance where tears are wept
and bad men sing the blues. I eat this city’s citizens
like other people take out trash. The only trash
I care about today is pompous windbag posers
who pretend they matter in this town. Go fly a kite.