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• Dancing a Thin Line
• Olds '88 & his Mate

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Noone knew about the ho-ho's, wham-wham's
and zuzu's that she hid in the closet,
sneaking in, stuffing her mouth, dribbling
on the shoes in the corner.
Noone spoke about the gap that increased
between her thighs, or the ribs
that stuck out further than her breasts.
She wanted to dance and flesh made her
sink, hampered the movement, wouldn't
allow feather steps.
Choreographers said "too thin", "no strength",
she heard "too fat".
An asylum of phantom screaming thin people taunted
her image while passing storefront windows.
Diuretics, enemas and raw throat muscles reminded her of
her daily chores.
The only thing that could confirm life was the emptiness
that sat like a larvae in her stomach, occasionally tweaking a muscle,
bringing back her hunger with a starkness that still
stunned her.

She only wanted to dance...
and she did,
in the night,
in front of the mirrors,
alone with her skin,
hating her ass,
in love with thin.

Crazy mouth bastard
drives a nasty streak
Lean as an old dog
breast fed at the pump.
Oil burning loser
mindset on mayhem,
while the full moon directs
this piston shot drive.

Radiator face has seen more
than his share.
He'll rip through your lungs
in the middle of a cough.
He's a sick puppy
snorting through life
Filling his tank with
high octane souls.

Peeling leather booths at
the midnite truck stops.
New cuisine his apparent choice.
She's young and tired,
just enough curious
and he likes the way she wears
her heart on her sleeve.

Inviting her out to the '88,
he caresses the dent by the door.
Licking the grill and
quelling the beast
he plays with the curls now escaped
from her net.

Pushing her down on the hood,
the '88 growls
as he sparks her plugs
and lubes her valves.
Behind the wheel
they chuckle together,
olds '88 and his mate.