Banshee Screaming Falling Down Drunk
Wet Brain Sex Maniac
was her tribal name. Not a Native
American one, though she wanted people
to believe it was, but The Tribe nickname,
The Tribe being an aging biker gang
out of San Berdoo loosely affiliated
with the Hell’s Angels. It was the name
she adopted or had bestowed on her,
depending upon how you looked at it,
after a stretch on a locked-in ward,
fried on acid, peyote buttons and bad
skag overdose that left her a mental
cripple for months until the flashbacks
abated, weighed down by so many
psychotropic drugs she could barely move.
“My festival name, before the bad stuff
came down, was zephyr breeze free love
smoke of many dreams gypsy queen.
Ever see the Woodstock movie?
I’m the naked blonde wearing a necklace
of flowers covered in mud, tripping
her tits off to Santana.”
“So what happened to her?”
“ Like I said, bad stuff happened.”
Bad stuff like fifty to a hundred pounds
of sagging flesh, deep blue eyes washed
away to eggshell powder blue, a dozen
teeth dropping out with the rest of her.
Now she’s a novelty act: buy her a couple
of drinks and see what happens.
Some guys swear she’s the best ten bucks
they ever spent. That is, once they got out of jail.