I sit here in a new white T with Desolation Angels
feeling as though I could beat Kerouac in
a writing contest. A lucky wanker,
after all. No use in praising him anymore.
What does a Buddhist get from praise?
Perhaps he’s a narcissist in his current life.
Will looks like James Dean in a crusty’s clothing
and Mary Anne has on her Italian Housewife get-up
shining bright in black and blue.
The snow has us cooped up right some tight
and the bacon smell has turned to a fancy tea aroma
which reminds me of the dog & weed rank of crummy punk houses.
(Her eyes haunted my dreams this morning.
I woke up crying with a boner and a headache.
She cares enough to keep me away.
I hope she marries and has ten vegan children.
I really do.)
I’ve never once been a genius
I just lived with one once
But he thinks all bluesmen sound the same
So he’s just a superior dunce