I don't write the poem for the words
Posted: February 13th, 2012, 5:25 am
I don't write the poem for the words
I write the words for the poem
there is a difference, and I will show that
when the conjunction and the juncture
is just right..all right...all rat, all rare
you cannot lure me with sweet nothings
though I listen for the utterance, dat dare
that floats along down the hard candy street
the one that fell at your lovely feet
when your stolen words were naked and torn
from the pages of De Sade or
you were just hardly done born on
the floor of a poem hot rod you lost your cherry to
"who are you"...a who are a you?
my what big bongo eyes you have
the better to tell you tall tells to
to beat on those moons of jazzy cartoons
what big lies you tell as you chew on a fallen lock
and turn around and look down the hip town block
but your white lies are better then the black truth
in the middle of the night when the drugs of stars
fill our heads with cosmic dust as we are swept away
down decades and arcades of lingering caress of youth
oh, your world was a gypsy alley of cat's eye soda lights
I followed you through the cheap shot maze of found days
I saw your crumbs of reading that you left on the page
of mystery novels you found at yard sales when the yard-
birds were playing in that Blow-Up movie, the written
by Julio Cortazar, everything was so bizarre, to you then
I write the words for the poem
there is a difference, and I will show that
when the conjunction and the juncture
is just right..all right...all rat, all rare
you cannot lure me with sweet nothings
though I listen for the utterance, dat dare
that floats along down the hard candy street
the one that fell at your lovely feet
when your stolen words were naked and torn
from the pages of De Sade or
you were just hardly done born on
the floor of a poem hot rod you lost your cherry to
"who are you"...a who are a you?
my what big bongo eyes you have
the better to tell you tall tells to
to beat on those moons of jazzy cartoons
what big lies you tell as you chew on a fallen lock
and turn around and look down the hip town block
but your white lies are better then the black truth
in the middle of the night when the drugs of stars
fill our heads with cosmic dust as we are swept away
down decades and arcades of lingering caress of youth
oh, your world was a gypsy alley of cat's eye soda lights
I followed you through the cheap shot maze of found days
I saw your crumbs of reading that you left on the page
of mystery novels you found at yard sales when the yard-
birds were playing in that Blow-Up movie, the written
by Julio Cortazar, everything was so bizarre, to you then