Desert exclusive

Out on the other side of the
mountain range, a pasty fat
god-fearing man won by a
fat landslide and cowboy hat.

Built a tower on a
mud hill where you, the blood was
boiling inside. Some dust, out of
the cold intolerance but didn't dare spoil
because it was desert
and by that,
desert exclusive.

The backwards integrity of some holy zealot
sad piece of shit to back of
my chafed throat wanted guns racks for council
like it wanted steam horns in depths of sleep.

Bottom half smelled of sea
salt seasoning the seasoned
proverbial sailor lost.
Warm mud slugging the neurons.

When the ghost train comes knocking
on the door, you better tell it to go running
for the cascades, cuz' hey babe
life's not a surprise party,
you're not subject
to these assholes

and a preacher in the flock
is infinitely worse
than a boxing match with the
pacific spirit hunt line,
anyone would take that any day

it's quite well worth
a chipped tooth, and a black eye.