Categories
Poetry

DEATH ON THE AIR

They had me on the show.

I was a guest, I was drunk;

I didn’t know; I didn’t care, it didn’t matter – fuck it.

They had me stuck between Ed

and Johnny. Johnny was smiling over

at Ed and Ed was laughing out into space.

They were making light, making

like I was just a drunk, didn’t have any money;

looked, acted and smelled funny. So I

got my gun out and gave it

to Ed. He took it in the gut;

never stopped laughing. Something green

like caterpillar blood seeped out of his 3-piece business suit.

Johnny gave Ed the deadpan.

I turned and shot Johnny’s wig off.

Two people in the crowd died laughing. Then I

pistol-whipped his aftershave, prodded his deodorant,

broke his plastic nose with the butt of my gun.

I was taking my time. We had an hour and a half to kill.

I shot off Johnny’s tie, suspenders, belt,

backbrace, shoelaces, sock garters; turned and

shot off Ed’s bra.

Wheeled and

shot holes in Johnny’s shoes

to make him dance, but he couldn’t. He was too stiff

and shattered into a thousand shiny pieces

of expensive shit. That was it.

The crowd gave it to me, pounding me

to death with applause.

Ed, who by now looked like some gigantic black beetle,

got up and walked off the air. 

Willie Smith

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