Locomotive for Billie

whistling the love for sale away...
chasing the ghosts of hysteria, the men of town
the men of a million songs
the men of a million debts
the men of cheap cigars
the men of low reputation
of high life's gutter pleasures
and humble wives making pancakes
the spurs of the madness on top of the wing
the wing on top of the madness
the pancake gets thrown at the wall
the wall forms an answer for Billie
and yeah, that's a quote from the
Holy
Bible...

whistling the duty out to the bar
mingled in silent death's little sister
the one with beautiful heels
the one with a spirit and lips of ashtrays
the one that's waiting for love for sale
whistled
far from behind the stage
far from behind the cornershop light
far from behind the
sex in the lobby
the poker at church
Melinda on Fridays...

and it's all so strangely
satanically
spiced
so tingled
and carelessly
undermined...
the thick white lips shaped in a D
like Mr. D
like dis way to de Konig
like here are the Germans
and they're waiting for your song
and here are the last war's
disabled heroes...
like the D's so goddamn black
it hurts
& the D becomes an icon:
very soon forms a little tail
a tail just perfect to step on...

a tail to be hit by a locomotive
rallying through the counter
through the sad old lady
through the tankards
through the barkeep's dingy face
heading for Billie at death's sails full-fledged
driven only be the setting sun steam
of the probably last true black
angel
the goddamn flying Dutchmen
of trains
the red-bearded
undertaker