made of madder stuff
Posted: August 13th, 2011, 4:20 am
I use to read Nietzsche
now I don't read peachy
but he told of dancing with a star
and we still can't imagine
how many stars there really are
oh, I use to believe in poetry
made by all
now I know there will never be
another Dylan
Thomas
craft and sullen art
knows something is happening
he could sling a lot of Guinness, records
into the night of his holy grail cups, a bit fey
off the top of his bushy head, like a poem
a tad of Druid lore covered in blarney
those stuffy English poets
tried to follow on his faery dust heels
turning on the leaf tongue, a glower of green
people could drink a whale
and live to tell the tale
a poet like that had a lot
to ponder, when there were
so many imponderables
and that childhood pond
that we are out of, we are out of our pond
Bukowski was a different kind of drinker
he wrote about the ravages of the savage
average man, the moon in the can
while listening to Mozart
he could carry on a conversation with the wall-paper
was made of madder stuff
coming down that hose tube of spirit matter
was born out of that
flaunted a flamboyant style
could dance with the devil awhile
and play lost marbles with the marble losers
never could quite get the tremor of his voice
the trick was to gargle rut gut whiskey
while doing a little tightrope jig
and not care a fig, make the bar whores smile
except only to dig the amount of paradoxes
on the head of a bottle of ransacked estate wine
a philosopher-poet like Nietzsche knows about
how many stars
there really are, made of madder stuff
then we can dream
now I don't read peachy
but he told of dancing with a star
and we still can't imagine
how many stars there really are
oh, I use to believe in poetry
made by all
now I know there will never be
another Dylan
Thomas
craft and sullen art
knows something is happening
he could sling a lot of Guinness, records
into the night of his holy grail cups, a bit fey
off the top of his bushy head, like a poem
a tad of Druid lore covered in blarney
those stuffy English poets
tried to follow on his faery dust heels
turning on the leaf tongue, a glower of green
people could drink a whale
and live to tell the tale
a poet like that had a lot
to ponder, when there were
so many imponderables
and that childhood pond
that we are out of, we are out of our pond
Bukowski was a different kind of drinker
he wrote about the ravages of the savage
average man, the moon in the can
while listening to Mozart
he could carry on a conversation with the wall-paper
was made of madder stuff
coming down that hose tube of spirit matter
was born out of that
flaunted a flamboyant style
could dance with the devil awhile
and play lost marbles with the marble losers
never could quite get the tremor of his voice
the trick was to gargle rut gut whiskey
while doing a little tightrope jig
and not care a fig, make the bar whores smile
except only to dig the amount of paradoxes
on the head of a bottle of ransacked estate wine
a philosopher-poet like Nietzsche knows about
how many stars
there really are, made of madder stuff
then we can dream