...but, Coming Off Like Everett Maddox at the Mapleleaf Bar.
I've
been cooped up in this no show pad
diggin'
nothin' but graves for my butts.
Musta
smoked two packs since noon.
Wishin'
my woman would come...
come
empty the ashtrays...
come cook me a meal...
come clean up this mess...
come sit on my face...
come, let me cum-cum-cum
in her mouth.
But
it's a no show proposition.
She's
gotta work and I gotta sit.
Sit
here on my butt, suckin' butts
feeling
buzzed.
suckin'
Bud's
sucking bottles
sucking cans
from the fridge in our pad.
I
gotta find me some inspiration--
maybe
suck up some reefer instead--
'cause
this old typewriter ain't goin' nowhere.
Maybe
if I open the front door
and lock
my naked, hairy body
in the bathroom
some guy from Altadena
will
slip in and slide out
with
my TV and typewriter
slung
under his arms.
I
doubt if he'll think to
rip off my manuscript.
But what if he's a pyro
and torches my pages...
save me the zig-zags...
save me typin' new drafts...
save me from heartache
save me from the bathroom-
where I'd be trapped
smellin' certain death!
Wouldn't
that beat all?
I'd
finally get printed in the STAR--
But
the TIMES would bury me in “Metro”,
or "Valley, by a Bullock's ad.
I can see the headline now--
"Tragedy in Pasadena,
Poet parishes in Paper Blaze"
Film at eleven.
But the laugh would be on that guy
'cause my TV don't work
but my woman do.
-dp-
10-28-85
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