07.12
she called up on the telephone
upset, halfway between rage
and torment
a prickly roost
I know well
she asked me to come out
I can’t, I said. It’s the Poem,
and I can’t get it. It won’t
come to me.
I’m empty,
empty as a rusted can of gas
I can’t light a fire
I can’t even crack a match
I’m just smoke and wind
falling over the trees
I’m young and pretty
some say beautiful.
I have a wonderful ass
a marvellous ass
eyes of azure
long blonde hair
almost razor straight
and wet lips that are
always parted,
poised to thrill.
you are an old man
come out and fuck me
I’ll give you your Poem
I can’t.
I have to get drunk
and work the Poem
it’s all I have left
to offer
I hung up
the telephone
I poured the Drink
3 oz. of Beefeater
a splash of bone-dry vermouth
half a shaker of cracked ice
and shake, shake, shake
until I cannot hold on
any longer
I started to type
with frosted fingers
I walked enviously past the cemetery again
today
watched the sun peel away the rain
and the supple grasses
bend and arc
and swoon on the solar winds
like a beautiful young woman
in the throes of
ecstasy…