My eyes are red like cheap beaujolais, burning
in their own tired drunkenness. Drunkenness is
a big flat word for such a stumbling cumbersome
condition. Maybe we should call it aufbedrunkenstadt
or something German. German is proof that even
ugly things can be beautiful: see Rilke or Goethe.
My words have left me alone in a gutter laughing
like a hyena or a mental patient, pointing at the
prostitute shoving her breast into her bra
gyrating in offensive gyrations, shaking her
fat ass with style; the sight makes me laugh
more and more, pointing out her ridiculing
face and laughing with the voice of a child.
What is it to taste one’s elegant bride?
Going to hell in a bucket and enjoying the ride?
I’m grateful I’m not dead or discarded, though
my words may have left me that way. My words
flaunt themselves before my mind then emerge
trite and sewer flushed. It seems to have them
taste like cinnamon rolls on Christmas Day
will require much sober practice and patience,
praying if ever they roll out with white icing
I will not greed them and goad the into more
trite high school thoughts, unaware of their
own unlearnedness. I taste bourbon in the back
of my nose, itching my throat with its yummy
bite, not enjoyed by all but I love to be bitten.
Even if it’s just the bite of moderate bourbon.
They say to keep your day job til your night job
pays. Sage. I estimate the prophet who spake
these sage words had no day job but at night,
one long hazy memory on Grosvenor Square –
yes we’ve all been there, look at it right and
the turn of the song is the turn of her moves.
I let my life pass by watching scarlet begonias
waft around the corner, inviting me into a room
of hippie chicks and flower-dancing hugs with
wet kisses over shared elegant pot- loving kind
bud: to which I slapped the scent from my face,
choking on the wind from the willows, the blue sun.