Bugsy Malone versus Bugsy Siegel (I)

Big Bugsy the Brightest, did say,

“Life is fun, as bright buns, on the dance run, the bright buns of a dancing girl as she runs, jumps, kicks, pirouettes, twerks, until the day is done.”

Big Bugsy the Brightest, did say, in his old-fashioned, new-fangled finagling, in his master of ceremonies, awkward jack of all trades, tried, true, tested, testosterone way,

“Splendor kicks off, like a Rockette. Like a show on the road, a circus, mother lode, geode, I loves her, that one with the mop of curls, and the unrouged rosy cheeks, and gives her a kick in the bun cheeks, a pinch, and feel titlation, good vibration, elation, especially when her sequined panty shows, as a special, bestest and brightest, part of her dance.”

Big Bugsy the Brightest loves that will bring them in, in like skin, like slap me five, give the house a Ben, just that glimpse, that imp of glimpse, doing the opposite of making the audience go limp, Bugsy leading the way.

“Thank good and nasty they ain’t tighty whitey, with either a pink or yellow stain, profane, though she shows up here, yes, in Las Last Lost Vegas, from Lowell, the Merrimac, a river of flow. A river of flow pink and yellow stain, of a textile unretained, where her grandmothers worked in the mill.”

Big Bugsy, stop of the stop cock, cocked his fist, and cocked his weapon, as if, name the sky, the constellations creeping by, who “named” Mannahatta Mannahatta, didn’t want America to fail. They had the insight, Ishmael, America not fail.

“Create a red light district, to prevail.”

“We’ll build a casino ouch ‘har, jack rabbit meets the rail, in the fresh morning arid desert aire, and in minuets tick ticking by, a Sin City, bodies buried, and we’ll call it, once unveiled, Las Vegas. As a magus, burning bright as a bush, Austria put a burger on that bun, or if partuclarly hungry, some sausage Keilbasa, why not New Jerusalem, or New Tel Aviv?”

The aboriginals, desert aboriginals, original aboriginal, Yaqui, Apache, Pueblo, conquistedore, stove pipe, standing lonely there, against a leaning wailing wall, alabaster not of brick, nor a back stop, all of them lonely, trembling in seizured gold, Wall Street worth of self pride and self worth, invested as much as crime, show biz, and teamsters, heard Bugsy the Brightest– and dispersed them, as an aborigial diaspora, to reservations of scrub.

Nameless.

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