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Click hereI want to write about
epic adventures,
that rival Fitzgerald and Hemingway.
How I drank indigo tea in some
third world god box and stained
their unglazed toilets with blue piss,
staggering down unpaved alleys,
like Kerouac,
taking each minute like a dishrag,
wringing all sensations,
sour sponge bitter, into my veins,
ringing a fleshy temple bell with each thrust
of my ever expanding cock consciousness,
then leaving hung over but wiser,
and empty of another need.
Instead I sip a beer,
trying not to notice the light pink stain on the rug,
where you vomited blood
and lay, tongue lolling and confused,
looking to me for answers.
All I could provide were lullabies of small comfort.
I think that may be adventure enough for now.
At some point I'll find a carpet installer.
loved this, related to your search for inspiration, realizing it does not have to be of bukowski proportion to matter or to work..... I was also not crazy about the end. Just the last line, though. I hope you re-think it, but of course, it is yours :) to do with what you wish....
Enjoy poetry that has enough balls
to walk straight into the wind
without getting blown over by
guilt or shame before it's finished.
I'm not big on your close at all.
It seems a let-down after
a meteor shower of lines packed
with power and energy.
In fact I started to fall out of
the poem right after the first
verse.
That said, it stood out for me
and I'll look forward to reading
more of your poetry in the future.
best,
andy
to see your poetry back again. I missed it. Another excellent piece, I loved the bold imagery, esp the lines
'How I drank indigo tea in some
third world god box and stained
their unglazed toilets with blue piss,
staggering down unpaved alleys,
like Kerouac,
taking each minute like a dishrag,'
Astounding stuff as always
xx
So many far off fantasies of other times other places. The death of a beloved animal snatches you back from fantasyland to confront the sad reality. Well Written! Enjoyable Read!