the best often die by their own hand just to get away, and those left behind can never quite understand why anybody would ever want to get away from them
tell me that all that paedophile theory is your insidious slander. i learnt about it from you. why do you hate the great poet, the good old bloke, why lindsay?
it wasn't necessarily a rumor, it was just me pointing wildly and saying "hello? he is sitting in his apartment jerking off to the sound of a four year old being raped by her father and he skipped a line after every third or so word so it's considered a poem?"
i mean honestly, i don't know how something like that could have even been considered poetry. and there are others- of him sitting in his car jerking off while watching young girls. or driving by schools and imagining himself with the girls. i am no prude, it's just that these particular poems cross the line.
beheaded in the middle of the night scratching my sides I am covered with bites kick my white legs out of the sheets as the sirens scream there is a gun blast.
I go to the kitchen for a glass of water destroy the reverie of a roach destroy the roach. a gale comes from the North as the man in the apartment across from me inserts his penis into the rump of his 4 year old daughter.
I hear the screams light a cigar stick it into the lips of my beheaded head. it is half a cigar stale a Medalist Naturales, No. 7.
I walk back to the bedroom with a spray can. I press the button. it hisses. I gag, think of ancient wars loves dead.
so much happens in the dark yet tomorrow the sun will move up and on, you'll get a ticket if you park on the south side of the street on Thursday or the north side on Friday.
the efficiency of the sun and the law bulwarks sanity.
something bites me. I madden spray half my bedsheets.
I turn see the dark mirror- the cigar the loose belly me old.
because there are so many poems of him talking about this sort of thing, i mixed up. it's in another poem, it goes something like: i jerk off while thinking of a little girl i saw last week on a red tricycle".
he can jerk off to whatever he wishes as long as it doesn't harm anyone. it's just that if he were jerking off to the sound of a 4 year old girl being raped it would have made him a far more unpleasant characted than if he jerks to a memory of a little girl on a red tricycle.
wait, i take that back. i guess even perverts/pedophiles can be poets too. whether they are good/i like them or not isn't the point. i guess, i guess. it is too early in the morning.
if bukowski wanted to have sex with bus tailpipes, you'd forgive him being a good poet. and he wants to fuck little girls, so what? that doesn't mean he fucks them.
listen, i'm not even going to touch that statement because i don't want to fight or argue with you over something as trivial as a poet/poem. also maybe the fact that he is dead and it no longer matters should shut me up anyway.
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(no subject)
Date: 2006-02-06 10:39 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-02-06 10:41 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-02-06 10:48 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-02-06 10:52 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-02-06 11:04 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-02-06 11:10 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-02-07 01:04 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-02-07 07:23 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-02-07 04:36 pm (UTC)i mean honestly, i don't know how something like that could have even been considered poetry. and there are others- of him sitting in his car jerking off while watching young girls. or driving by schools and imagining himself with the girls. i am no prude, it's just that these particular poems cross the line.
(no subject)
Date: 2006-02-07 04:46 pm (UTC)beheaded in the middle of the
night
scratching my sides
I am covered with bites
kick my white legs out of the sheets
as the sirens scream
there is a gun blast.
I go to the kitchen
for a glass of water
destroy the reverie of a roach
destroy the roach.
a gale comes from the North
as the man in the apartment across
from me
inserts his penis into the rump of his
4 year old
daughter.
I hear the screams
light a cigar
stick it into the lips of my
beheaded head.
it is half a cigar
stale
a Medalist Naturales, No. 7.
I walk back to the bedroom
with a spray can.
I press the button.
it hisses. I
gag,
think of ancient wars
loves dead.
so much happens in the dark
yet tomorrow
the sun will move up and on,
you'll get a ticket if you park on the
south side of the street on
Thursday
or the north side on
Friday.
the efficiency of the sun and the
law
bulwarks sanity.
something bites me.
I madden
spray half my
bedsheets.
I turn
see the dark mirror-
the cigar
the loose belly
me
old.
I laugh.
it's good they don't
know.
I take my head
put it back on my
neck
get between the sheets and
can't sleep.
(no subject)
Date: 2006-02-07 04:49 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-02-07 04:53 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-02-07 04:47 pm (UTC)(no subject)
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Date: 2006-02-07 06:14 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-02-07 12:34 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-02-07 07:24 am (UTC)