This is the Mötley Crüe Poem

because it's the world's most ridiculous & notorious Mötley Crüe terza rima,
a poem you wish was about Guns ‘n Roses,
a poem aspiring to get banned for life from Edmonton, Canada,
  
a poem about your mom in clashing Izod jumpers and blouses,
a poem twisting out of its Sergio Valente's onto the air mattress.
It's where the tercets are held together by Aquanet ropes,
  
& this poem may wear tight pants but it is not even a little bit embarrassed.
This poem has never died for five minutes, maimed its passengers in a Lamborghini,
but the poem has raced down a once busy 4 A.M. avenue & felt madness
  
in the oasis of a car, seeing visions of fiberglass origami.
This poem is locked in your frontal lobe's rotating drum set,
fine, the poem apologizes, I'm not about your mom—unless she's a groupie
  
& in that case, bless her & her autographed chest.
This poem needs more heavy metal umlauts:
bölögnä sändwïch, Räy-Bäns, Ïn-N-Öüt Bürgër—Ö rësplëndënt göddëss öf ëxcëss,
  
jump up & down with your crimped hair & side-pony as this poem peels burnouts
in the parking lot of a boarded-up K-Mart.
Mötley Crüe poem, Houdini out of your nylon handcuffs & breakout
  
of your form,
begin, again,
with a police car siren
chasing your cracked-window-
cigarette-smoke-
puff-puff-
Italian-V-8-locomotive.
Become a poem
for all runaways
when you disconnect
from Earth
off the L.A. barrio's
railroad track hill.
Become a poem
for the poets
throwing their notepads
through hotel windows,
   whöä,
    yëäh,
   bäby.
Whoa Yeah Baby
Dave Landsberger
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Whoa Yeah Baby

Dave Landsberger

Floating Wolf Quarterly Cover_wolf