Frazzled Razzle Dazzle

Big jumper small pants, switch them in the car park. Frizzy hair hides borderline eating disorder when perched on a light bit of kit. Whiz of tattoo needle burns cracks into white skin. Makes you feel nice. Pain is a state of mind. Truck pulls up onto acres of empty gravel car park. Dry heat is Vaseline over the camera lens, lets truckers bat above their average. Besides, hot chicks dusty eyed from backpack land don’t see good through peaked caps. It’s a popular stop, whichever side you’re batting for. The white-haired laydee worshipped in the centre of the dance floor usually ain’t all she seems, it’s the price you pay for choosing cheap whisky. Blonde halo of hair riding high on the nose of a whale, it’s a trick she stole from Vegas in 1987. Perched high she’s waiting for someone to take her down. Ah well, it’s all a rollercoaster anyway. Venus’ bar side confessions are best taken in a loop with a Margarita. Old fashioned classic like her fishnets. The best.

-Did I tell you I once met Lennon? Sure. I had him begging me to join a band.
She calls for a pink gin to laugh into. She knows it’s a gamble which bottle I pour from. The carpet is minging.
-Room service eh?
She’s got sharp eyes I don’t trust but I trust them because there’s nothing else to do in an empty bar in the middle of a wide open road to nowhere. She shoots, she snores. She smiles a crinkled, crack of a grimace. Outsie a boomerang hits a sunset that drops over wide-screen horizon, empty and flat and choses not to come back. Nobody leaving, nobody staying, everyone just passing through. It’s the way you throw them.

A random Greyhound pulls up alongside the only truck. Please don’t ever set your watch by them. A tall angel in tan boots and hot pants disembarks. Fresh blood. It’s saline refreshing to know we can all start again ay, but here? Eyeballed in a flash by she of the centre stage.
-Say you got any falsies girlfriend?
-Christ, Venus, she just got off the bus!
-Did you bring me any FALSIES!
I forgot to mention our laydee is cracked in the head.
-Ain’t nothing about you that ain’t false Venus!
-Sick of this.
-Let her have a clean break of it. Give the girl a chance.
-Don’t pour your raw assed sewage on my stoop baby face or I’ll gouge your blue eyes out and make myself a pretty necklace. This ain’t a place for cheerleader try outs.

No surprise, a clean pair of heels is shown. The blonde bobbing Angel getting smaller in our rear view mirror has brought our ass breaker back. The doorman opens his kisser to check for flies.
-Someone put the wind up ya Winceyette Venus?
-Fuck with me man and I’ll make a fireside rug out of your drugstore-died lice-infested head.

Thank God for that. Like I said, nothing happens on this wide-open road. The semi-skimmed milk gets delivered and that’s the only chunk of reality you can reliably cling to. But now the newbie has flown with a rocket between her spray-tanned legs, this place has a rep and they’ll be placing bets as far as Mars as to who has the bollocks to take Venus on. Quite literally. Words skip fast over desert bowls. It’s something to do with the crossed wires of the American Indians. With fossil energy drying up I’m sure they’re nudging us to tap into the cult of personality. Gets ya pecker up everytime. And that sells Jack Daniels. Which in reality tastes truly foul without ice. And most bar tenders would settle for that.