Wednesday, 15 July 2015

What The Fuck Does Norman Mailer Know About AnyThing, AnyWays?

An Inked Epidemic
To Fit WithIn Borders,
High-Diveing Fifty-Fiveing,
Splattering UpOn The Paved Recess,
With The Obsession Of Rorschach
To OutWit Pollock,
And Resurrect A Cold-Nose To Beg
Joan Of Arc Out From Under Her Corset... Worming In A Fist...
Hinting Patchouli In The HayStack... The Marco Polo Of St.Louis,
Crooking All Spirited To Arched Bluffs...
Arrested InTo A State Of Commercial DisOrder,
Needled InTo A Rug SomeWhere In Tangier,
Liquor-Soaked...  Pursueing A Lesson In Taxidermy,
Old And Dieing And Queer... Coughing Dry As Swine Drowning Would,
Sticking What Timely Bones Remain InTo Stomachs To Drain,
As Hotel Bills Pile Up Beside Greasy Floor Cushions,
To Muffle The Pot InTo A Softly Padded Cell,
That Dead Wife Laughing Last... Storming In And Fast.

No comments:

Post a Comment