A Game of Gogol's Bluff, revision no. 4

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A Game of Gogol’s Bluff

At sunset in Broken Soul
the damned exhale dry lightning
out of the electrical discharge
comes Leroy McDoom, 
an alias for gunpowder and grins. 
He takes the town under his direction
because God condemned its existence
to give Satan a place for his spawn.

Flickering lanterns hang 
from a gallows built of crystal and lead
where the town’s feral children 
play jump the noose over a trapdoor to Hell.
Inside a saloon called the Pink Goddamn
toads wait at the door of Serpentina
the town’s only whore who sheds her skin every spring.
Downstairs, sitting on ant-hills littered with gold, 
upright jokers sip an incipient brew
of bone char, alcohol and lust,
an amalgam of McDoom’s own design.

Morse’s code is banned as a tool of divinity
but the telegraph hums at McDoom’s command,
sending out cryptic temptations
for those without exemption
from the Game that must be played every day
if McDoom is to lengthen his stay. 
Megaloblatta is appointed sheriff,  
his badge of office, a dwarf’s pocket watch, 
He scurries up and down the town’s only street
tickling out of dust the name of the next contestant.

An eternal drifter, christened Frank DeSade,
hears McDoom’s call as he rides nearby.
Out of the desert he comes
wearing a poncho of sackcloth and ashes, 
lured on by the sound of Serpentina’s shrill laughter.
High noon is a myth, it’s really midnight 
when McDoom issues his challenge:  
a game of Gogol’s Bluff played with a deck of Tarot.  
The stakes: DeSade’s soul if he loses,
Or a night of coiled delight if he conquers.

The game lasts ten seconds, or ten days in Biblical time. 
 Swords and Cups flash in their hands, Staves and Pentacles
in their eyes.  Visions come tumbling onto green baize
The Hermit, The Fool, The Hanged Man, The World.
McDoom starts to sweat, Frank tightens his grip
Megaloblatta flees into the night,
Serpentina’s eyes grow bright as Frank throws down
Judgement upon McDoom’s crumbling Tower.

Broken Soul lets out a collective scream
it’s the end of their infernal dreams.  
McDoom is flung back to the Bottomless Pit.
DeSade saddles up, Serpentina’s transfigured and rides at his back.  
What McDoom’s crooked heart could not know:  
Frank DeSade, a  curious saint, gave up his soul
long before the Game ever started.

At sunset in Broken Soul, 

population unknown,

the mouths of the condemned exhale dry lightning.

They dance up a storm 

and conspire to invoke anthems of submission 

for the town boss’ delight.



Leroy McDoom is an amalgam 

of gunpowder and grins

who took the town under his black wings

not long after God erased its existence

from the map made at Satan’s insistence.



Morse’s code has been banned 

as a tool of divinity

but the telegraph hums 

at a scorpion’s command,

sending out cryptic messages of temptation

composed for the ears 

of those God has exempted. 

 

Flickering lanterns hang 

from an unneeded gallows 

the town’s feral children born of crystal and lead  

play jump through the noose 

on a squeaking trapdoor.



A foot-long cockroach plays sheriff,  

his badge of office so small, a dwarf’s pocket watch, 

he does McDoom’s bidding 

scurrying up and down the town’s only street

tickling out of dust 

the gamble of time’s last relenting.



The pews of Last Baptist, a religious way station,

now an opium den where vultures perch on the sleepers 

hungry scavengers who listen to the news 

recited by a blind prospector

who has memorized every issue 

of the Daily Inspector.



Inside a saloon called the Pink Goddamn

toads wait at the door of the town’s only whore

who sheds her skin every spring.

Sitting on ant-hills littered with gold, 

citizen slaves sip an incipient brew

of bone char, alcohol and lust.



In a schoolhouse built out of buffalo skulls, 

wild turkeys and hogs do sums 

while Clio, the drunken schoolmarm, 

chants Rimbaud for children not absent 

but in limbo.  Clio’s the goal of every game played

and the game is never forsaken.



The daily attraction, christened Frank DeSade

rides in at dawn looking wide-eyed with joy

a wandering boy from the desert, 

carrying flowers for the hogs

and whiskey for Clio, his indifferent darling.



High noon is a myth, it’s really eleven 

when McDoom issues his challenge:  

a game of Gogol’s Bluff  as it’s called

played with a deck of Tarot.  

The stakes are simple: DeSade’s soul 

if he wins, or his sweetheart if he loses.



The game lasts ten seconds, 

or ten days in the Bible.  

No matter how often he plays 

DeSade wins and loses. 

The same cards flash in his eyes.  

McDoom snatches them back 

as the lights in the drifter’s eyes fail.



DeSade is not dead, only soulless 

until the wasteland’s false dawn.

He wakes every morning and mounts up once more

to ride to the only destiny he knows.

Where twilight and blood orbit, Broken Soul waits,  

deadlocked between zero and tomorrow.











Population Minus Zero







In the town of Brokeplate



the pleasures are few



dry lightning exhales



the dead and the lewd.



They dance up a gale



then stand in a gang



and scream at the night.



Flickering lanterns hang



from a gallows so bright



forming rainbows of hate.







Its church is bled static



where the decomposed sing 



and the town’s only whore 



sheds her skin every spring



while toads wait at her door.



Morse code has been banned



but the telegraph hums



at a scorpion’s command.



Feral hogs do sums



in a blackboarded attic.







The town boss is synthetic



made of scraps of lice,



bent aces and gin.



He shoots bullets of ice



at targets without sin.



His voice is like thunder



if only he’d speak,



but instead he just wonders



who is the real freak



and what is “aesthetic”?







The town’s main attraction



is an innocent cowboy



who rides in each ugly dawn



looking happy but coy



an unordained pawn



carrying flowers and a glow.



But the boss is a shark 



at the game of G0-No-Go,



cowboy’s eyes fall dark



without a moment’s distraction.







Brokeplate’s dysfunction



circles a western sun



a planet of recurrence



where reason is spun



out of occurrence. 



Cowboy is buried only



for fun, he’ll be back



tomorrow just as lonely



without hesitation or slack,



to meet at the junction







of sunrise and sunset



and that’s as far as he’ll get.















In the town of Perplexity







lightning creates thirst







play-piercing the complexity







of the patently condemned







who race to be first







to wave invisible limbs







and ward off the eyes







whose pupils are coyotes







lacquered with lies. 







Inside the Bone Char 







a pink neon saloon 







built out of blood-stains







of twilight and sin 







Candyman is relapsing







his face is collapsing







into four aces and a grin.







Outside in the street







his bullet-faced son







Cotton-eyed Joe 







traces hearts in the sand







and counts out the rings







of detonations and gin.







Candy and Joe run things







as they care to displease, 







keeping an elephant in the brothel







ant-hills up their sleeves.







Feral hogs keep the peace







church hymns sound like static







and the town’s only whore 







is one-eyed but not tragic.







Though morse code is banned







the telegraph hums







at a scorpion’s command







and it’s a favorite abode







for hangmen to gather







wearing fezzes and robes







they dance the Hereafter.







If you want to tune in







to this alchemical age







sharpen your lips







and curl up your rage.







Smoke it or snuff it,







it’s all up to you







but the cemetery is off-limits







to all but the few







for a recipe God only knew







special ingredients







for slumgullion stew.