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Month: November 2023

all the tourists with their cameras at the safari looking at the wild animals, the rich and famous and there goes a rare one, a Madonna with her clothes on, and a lady gaga after a nose job.

a schooner in the corner hotel, sooner or later my luck will change. Upstairs in a windows seat, the heat rises from the street. Well it was always about the poetry and never the sobriety. I see green men walking across the street. It’s lunch hour in the rush hour and I fall in lust with barmaids and jazz singers. I don’t believe in love, I’m a hopeless romantic on board the titanic, but I believe in electric guitar riffs and sniffs in the bathroom.

my neighbourhood

there’s a black man walking with his two black Labradors, he’s not blind but blindness can be a blessing. White kids on their bicycles on the way to highschool, they’re still young and youth can be a blessing, messy as it is. The neighbourhood, last night’s tail of a blazing comet, I walk the trail of the honest, workers with their loyal dog in the back of a truck, trams on a two track recorder. The rooming house poet doesn’t rock the boat.

Madonna is a complicated woman but she’s a shapeshifter. She calls a good man an oxymoron which surprises me since she believes in jesus and reads James Baldwin.

she leaves me badmouthing the city with my beatbox, she leaves me begging for my big break, that’s exactly what Madonna does. Maybe I’ll get some finger lickng chicken from the colonel and some more beers. Upon Madonna’s death a voice will be heard saying, well she made a lot of tacky choices in her life, but she gave us all a sticky kind of love.

I’ll do it all by myself because I’m an underground artist, without the help of little miss popularity, aka Madonna. I forget all about algorithms on the internet, I come from the days of ribbons on my typewriter.

lady gaga, goddess of love, take me to your vagina, there’s a silver lining behind every cloud, there’s love to be found, you really stand out in a crowd, lady of luxury and necessity.

A magpie sells me some summer shade, I sit with him for some minutes and the children play. Everytime I write I create world’s. I’m as much of a failure as walt Whitman.

mental illness, then the stillness, tears on the windowsill and angels in disguise. I sit in the park reading a book, I bait the sun on a hook. I make no money from my poetry. I don’t fit into society. My poetry is not selling, you watch me turn to a life of crime.