Frisco Angels

Frisco  1965

Man, you gotta see this,
crazy assed one per centers,
Patched  Angels,
kissing,
touching tongues.

The Angels,
are fantasy for
the sadomasochistic
circuit.

There is eroticism
in the chain inflicted welts.
Deviant  lust,
in the knife wound,
the psychopath.

“Shit, I’ll  take a blow-job
off some queer bent on the taste of a greasy balled outlaw any day,
for a twenty,
or a bottle of Jack.”

“Hell, I like it,
It’s Scorpio Rising!”

The Frisco Angels,
it doesn’t rattle them at all.

They’re harmless.

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Filed under American West, History, Outlaw poetry, poetry

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