Sure, you know and love him as the aging bad-boy drummer of Motley Crue, the on-again off-again hubby of Pamela Anderson, and the almost-every-week defendant on Celebrity Justice, but the oft-tattooed rocker Tommy Lee is so much more — he’s a poet, too.
So without further ado, the bodacious words of Tommy Lee…
Molten Metal Sonnet
Again I’ve gone and wrecked the Escalade;
both bags deployed to stop my drug-drenched dreams
of Inspiration, that muse whose bangin’ bod
evades my famous grasp. Despite the reams
of righteous loot from multirecord deals,
prodigious backstage lines of pulchritude
bedecked in next to nothing, gold and squeals
of adulation, something’s missing, dude.
If I could truly rock through words alone
like Auden, Keats, Metallica or Korn,
I’d fly my jet to Monaco and hone
my craft, with breaks for baccarat and porn.
Alas, I lie beneath the teeming stars
and call my agent, crashing words like cars.
Vampire Sorority Girl
It’s not the way you rushed that freshman boy
and ripped his heart out (although GOD, that ruled),
or how you shocked the Theta Chi’s and spoiled
their bakesale fun (of course, you did the school
a favor). Deans will never understand
precisely why you tear them limb from limb,
but I do. Let me hold your icy hand
as we depart this bloody awful gym,
forget the pep squad sucked, and concentrate
on why you slay me. Deathly hot and sleek,
your evil schoolgirl skirts eviscerate
my will to live, your pallor makes me weak.
How this sophomore longs to feel your heart
not beating. Bite me now, and never part.
(Editor’s note: This next work features a brief but daring departure from self-absorption by Lee, as he dons the guise of an astrophysicist — several, actually — and then carries them into familiar territory, a strip club. And so we rock onward.)
Super String Theory!
We’re only telling you because we’re ripped
and also, Amber, when you dance, we feel
the thrilling vagaries of space are stripped
of mystery. Clad in curves and time, you steal
the hearts of Nobel astrophysicists
like us, the lonely nine who know the math
behind a theory panting fortune kissed
and wed too soon. Forget the garden path —
the bottom line? We made it up, us guys
around this table. Superstrings confound
all proof, dimensions tease and feign surprise;
our figures envy yours, so smoothly sound.
The universe is kind — unless we’re wrong
about our guess, you’re on for one more song?
Rebel Nonsonnet 27:
My Hot Erotica
Your rack’s a rockin’ revelation, causing heart attacks,
your can’s a planet of its own, the epi-tome of back,
your gams are slammin’ slender missiles blowing up those sandals,
your hips and curves have dips that pervs in dreams could never handle,
your midriff rips my brain in two, your arms destroy the rest,
your neck alone could launch the ships to crush that Helen test,
your eyes make supermodels cry, your nose blows waifs away,
your ears are sexy satellites, your mouth’s a passion play —
so lose the tube top, Daisy Dukes and discount Sauvignon,
and smack those lips with Bonne Bell. C’mon, let’s git it on.