Yellow Mama E zine

Butt Hole Blues

 

by Simon MacCulloch

 

Stiff in the alleyway, head took a bullet.

Butt in the hole, it’s stubbed there like an ashtray.

Isn’t the killer’s (they pick him up easy).

Nossir, I done ‘im, but never smoke Camels.

Tests on his spit, doesn’t match with the dog-end.

Isn’t the victim’s, that doesn’t match either.

Wouldn’t have mattered, but Press got a picture.

Public go crazy on “corpse desecration.”

Hunt down the monster! Judge pardons the killer.

He’s not the villain. The cops run in circles

Looking for Butt-man. They pull in the wino

Who slept in the alley. His spit doesn’t match it.

Grill the street artist who tries to charge folk who

Walk past his “Dead Cat Arranged on a Trash Can.”

He’s got an alibi (don’t artists always?).

Mayor unhappy—he’s up for election.

Camel sales dropping. So just find the bastard!

Cops blame the Press man who took the first photo.

Press blame the cop who was first on the scene.

Then comes this kid. My pal showed me some pictures.

Someone has snapped it before the Press got there.

Haul in the pal and he’s ten and he’s blubbering.

Yessir, I snapped it, it looked kinda funny,

But nossir, I never would stick in that butt.

Just as they’re thinking Well, do we believe him?

In comes this guy with a full-size confession.

Yessir, that there was my butt in the bullet hole.

See, when I found ‘im, the wound was still bleedin’.

Figured I oughta do somethin’ to stop it.

Mebbe the guy’s got a chance, what do I know?

I ain’t no doctor. Okay, so I panicked.

Would’ve got help, but thought, did I do wrong?

Wife always says I should stay out of trouble.

Press sense an angle here –make him a hero!

Butt-man Is Good Guy. A straight working Joe

Doing his best for the sake of a stranger.

Nobody’s perfect. Would you have done better?

Then he comes forward to help out the kid.

Everyone buys it, it makes a great ending.

See him on talk shows (all sponsored by Camel).

Mayor shakes hand and he gets re-elected.

Plaque in the alley and butts left in tribute.

“Down this mean street went a man not himself mean.”

(Kinda like that one. I think I could use it.)

Nobody’s thinking of checking his spit out.

Nobody blinks when he lights up a Lucky.

No-one’ll know it was me with the butt-end,

Me with the money that bought his “confession.”

Why did I do it? Well, isn’t that obvious?

Press aren’t the only guys needing a story.

 

 

 

       Simon MacCulloch lives in London and contributes poetry to a variety of publications, including Spectral Realms, Bowery Gothic, Black Petals, Pulsebeat Poetry Journal, and others.

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Bernice Holtzman’s paintings and collages have appeared in shows at various venues in Manhattan, including the Back Fence in Greenwich Village, the Producer’s Club, the Black Door Gallery on W. 26th St., and one other place she can’t remember, but it was in a basement, and she was well received. She is the Assistant Art Director for Yellow Mama.