A careless mirage of crayon on the tar
strikes me like a snake-
I forgot the forceful minds that took me here
Who told me to write about “money”
And offered me pride instead of “money”
And were ashamed they had no “money”
To wash away the creep of it.
I seldom reach the grain that drew the spark
Out from the ground.
I like to whittle the edges,
Make a picture and
Picture it through the sound-
A rainbow on asphalt maybe, or
A pear shaped like a child.
These things make me happy
When I fail at really going to town.
DID YOU KNOW that soon there will be baby-shaped pears for £5 at the local supermarket? The most recent addition to the novelty fruit market, if you believe in such a thing. That's what happens when the birds and the bees and the pears get bored and let us play at it for a while.
I think Bukowski would rape them.There has definitely been too much of him lately. A scene of unexpected debauched anal rape springs to mind, which I read with the best part of Blue's refined family in the room. I felt dirty and plagued. Women that book is called. Charles is making me less articulate, I can feel it. Nevermind winning by manymanymany points at Scrabble recently. I should like to play the him at my new invention FONETIC SCRABEL. Swords out, pistols at dusk.
