It’s never quite right, he said, the way people look, The way the music sounds, the way the words are Written. It’s never quite right, he said, all the things we are Taught, all
George was lying in his trailer, flat on his back, watching a small portable T. V. His Dinner dishes were undone, his breakfast dishes were undone, he needed a shave, and ash From his
as the poems go into the thousands you Realize that you’ve created very Little. It comes down to the rain, the sunlight, The traffic, the nights and the days of the Years, the faces.
shot in the eye Shot in the brain Shot in the ass Shot like a flower in the dance Amazing how death wins hands down Amazing how much credence is given to idiot forms
majestic, majic Infinite My little girl is Sun On the carpet- Out the door Picking a flower, ha! An old man, Battle-wrecked, Emerges from his Chair And she looks at me But only sees
I say to my woman, “Jeffers was A great poet. think of a title Like Be Angry At The Sun. don’t you Realize how great that is? “you like that negative stuff.” she Says
it’s the same as before Or the other time Or the time before that. Here’s a cock And here’s a cunt And here’s trouble. Only each time You think Well now I’ve learned: I’ll
either peace or happiness, Let it enfold you When i was a young man I felt these things were Dumb, unsophisticated. I had bad blood, a twisted Mind, a pecarious Upbringing. I was hard
There are sketches on the walls of men and women and ducks, And outside a large green bus swerves through traffic like Insanity sprung from a waving line; Turgenev, Turgenev, Says the radio, and
I see you drinking at a fountain with tiny Blue hands, no, your hands are not tiny They are small, and the fountain is in France Where you wrote me that last letter and
sway with me, everything sad Madmen in stone houses Without doors, Lepers steaming love and song Frogs trying to figure The sky; Sway with me, sad things Fingers split on a forge Old age
I was fairly drunk when it Began and I took out my bottle and used it Along the way. I was reading a week or two after Kandel and I did not look quite
“They only burn themselves to reach Paradise” – Mne. Nhu Original courage is good, Motivation be damned, And if you say they are trained To feel no pain, Are they Guarenteed this? Is it
first time my father overheard me listening to This bit of music he asked me, “what is it?” “it’s called Love For Three Oranges,” I informed him. “boy,” he said, “that’s getting it Cheap.”
They dont make it The beautiful die in flame – Sucide pills, rat poison, rope what – Ever… They rip their arms off, Throw themselves out of windows, They pull their eyes out of
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