deepundergroundpoetry.com
Beatnik Bugmen
And
the rest of us measure time’s
tentative
tick in workweeks.
Minutes, hours, long–
months,
years
short.
Dry up palms coated with caked old grease
as the
righteously
fucked file down
easy street to
Rip the
nails off the coke fiends and
Break the
thumbs of the bassists and
Deck those singers in their throats.
The kids are annoying;
swat their ice cream cones.
Shirt-cock it to your dad’s funeral
Piss in the fountain at the Louvre—
(so much for victory in the halls power built).
the rest of us measure time’s
tentative
tick in workweeks.
Minutes, hours, long–
months,
years
short.
Dry up palms coated with caked old grease
as the
righteously
fucked file down
easy street to
Rip the
nails off the coke fiends and
Break the
thumbs of the bassists and
Deck those singers in their throats.
The kids are annoying;
swat their ice cream cones.
Shirt-cock it to your dad’s funeral
Piss in the fountain at the Louvre—
(so much for victory in the halls power built).
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