To expose
the workings of one's bowels in print
offends most people,
the smear of the ordinary
the taint of the awkward.
They would sooner bend and flush
than pause to examine
the fabric of self
to open one's guts with a scalpel
is a squalid affair
better left to the half-crazed imbecile
clogging up the plumbing
in hospital or zoo.
To bare one's flaccid ass in public
derails those senses
sensibly tuned to the finer things in life
for after all,
we all of us have our crosses to endure
it is not as if we need the reminder.
Bukowski said it best
we have come from the alleys
and the bars and the
jails
we don't care how they
write the poem
But just when we got busy celebrating
they unveiled sweeter technologies
than the flame thrower
to punish or seduce
the invective proved all but redundant.
Nobody reads anything any more
Our eyelids are all tattooed and written over.
Tuesday, February 10, 2015
apples | oranges | MP3s | M9A1-7s
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2 comments:
Although my eyelids are tattooed, I am never far from the printed word in one form or another.
But I am a dinosaur from a earlier epoch, believing the dictum that "in the beginning was the word".
I believe the exposing of one's flaccid ass is much too much reminder of our humanity in all its flawed glory for most to bear.
But I do not "care how they write the poem". I only want the sal volatile whiff of abject reality from the true heart of a madman saint.
I was dipping in and out of the "Septuagenarian Stew" anthology, when it occurred to me - again - just how relentless Hank was. Drunk in charge of a typewriter. One poem after the other. One more piece of prose. Seemingly effortless. And constantly pushing the envelope.
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