Bukowski would talk of cockroach sounds
And the noise a woman makes when you hit her
In your seedy motel room.
Frost would lament the
End of the quiet places.
Thompson might go on a tangent,
Something about Nixon and the fascists
Coming to probe us with high frequency
Columbian Hissing Snakes.
Ginsberg would just make sad dedications and
Neruda would ode something delicate.
Old Cohen would write something incredible.
New Cohen would write something incredible too,
And then tell you to "Zen the fuck out."
I say fuck Zen and fuck odes to fascist snakes!
Fuck dedications and fuck beating on women.
Fuck the quiet places.
I'm going to bathe in this noise,
And I'm going to soak the slow vibrating whine
Into my skin, and shiver
Every last drop of seed on rigid tiptoes.
This is Me,
Embracing Future-Now, orgasm-2009.