pansy
Posted: October 4th, 2009, 10:47 pm
Pansies don't look mal enough
but they remind me of cats faces
all those flowers of evil
i sniffed in the flatterer's fields
all this american image poetry
not worth the shit on the bottom
of Mark Twain's shoes
but Bukowski is that special shit
even so, he listened to Mozart
to his cherry fart
can you spare a thin dime
brother, can you spare a dime thin poem
i read Ginsberg in the starry starry Sunflower night
i existed in thin pocket series City Lights books
i read my Golden Sardine like a poet's jazz bible
on the Frisco wind swept corner
reciting Keats in my Kerouac alley head
watchin Michelin taunt the day people
with his river red written four roses poems
oh Jack, give em hell, i know you are in poet
heaven drinking poetry from the dirty angel' eyes
strumin harps in harpy holy hotel,snachin poet food
from the gods
oh neon of my teeth, blinkin in my bones
wastin my words on empty thoughts, bubble gum wrappers
floating down the street like some wild weed flower
of good and evil, plucked from no fertile soil, no grapes
of wrath, no call of the wild, no moby dick in my ragged jeans
no catcher in the rye am i, i fell from some cheesy 50's UFO
but they remind me of cats faces
all those flowers of evil
i sniffed in the flatterer's fields
all this american image poetry
not worth the shit on the bottom
of Mark Twain's shoes
but Bukowski is that special shit
even so, he listened to Mozart
to his cherry fart
can you spare a thin dime
brother, can you spare a dime thin poem
i read Ginsberg in the starry starry Sunflower night
i existed in thin pocket series City Lights books
i read my Golden Sardine like a poet's jazz bible
on the Frisco wind swept corner
reciting Keats in my Kerouac alley head
watchin Michelin taunt the day people
with his river red written four roses poems
oh Jack, give em hell, i know you are in poet
heaven drinking poetry from the dirty angel' eyes
strumin harps in harpy holy hotel,snachin poet food
from the gods
oh neon of my teeth, blinkin in my bones
wastin my words on empty thoughts, bubble gum wrappers
floating down the street like some wild weed flower
of good and evil, plucked from no fertile soil, no grapes
of wrath, no call of the wild, no moby dick in my ragged jeans
no catcher in the rye am i, i fell from some cheesy 50's UFO
