Upon
the promise of sure wind and desire
Upon
the vista of an under-the-bridge bar
Upon
a song of the dwarf and the two-bit guitarist
Upon
a childhood of oatmeal cookies yum yum
Upon
losing something but not knowing what
Upon
Danish perfumes at the lonely arroyo
Upon
a dog-eared volume of Verlaine voluptuously
Upon
Chinese legends before bulrushes opened
Upon
the rough long-nailed intimacy of happy fools
Upon
the wind that smiles through guitar strings
Upon
either shore of the Mississippi River
Upon
the sea galleys that went with cleaving prows
Upon
the sea that sank them O drowned intimacy
Upon
the seafaring sorrows and woes of the host
Upon
the murmuring of the morning ghost
Upon
the Ah! we must leave we must go away
Upon the loose-tooth wind flapping between words
Upon remembering us when we are gone away
Upon
wondering does this road go uphill all the way
Upon
nonsense we go a hey a ho and a hey nonino
1 comment:
I don’t even think you ever heard of the shit I am about to tell you: it’s about a motherfucking Indian who gave his life for the earth. He lived underground like the worm in Dune and he only came up to get a drinks of animal blood and to do dances to make the season’s jive with the goddess’s period or whatever. One day the Indian was all like leaves of grass come on I can’t even handle most of y’all gay pioneer people, but that shit is at one with the elements. The goddess loves to read that shit when she is on her period so the Indian renamed himself Walt Whitman. His old Indian name was Fucking Feather and he was not exactly a warrior. Fucking Feather just did the villagers taxes and counted their corn and shit, but as Walt Whitman he was a fucking stud. He came overground finally and sixty nined with all the hottest bitches and one time Anderson Cooper interviewed him and another time he was on a popular fashion blog on account of his excellent taste in dusty ass hats. Ass hats, see I told you it was a thing. Anyway, one time became the time of ultimate sacrifice and it went down like this: The goddess told Walt Whitman that he had to throw himself on a pile of fire in order to align the stars with her vagine so the devils wouldn’t jizz fire on mankind from above. It was kind of complicated cosmically, but Walt Whitman understood all that shit because he was a fucking Indian and he knew he didn’t have a choice. One night he invited all the teen Indians to the devils dance party and they listened to Madonna records and sent a pile of leaves of grass on fire. The pages burned up really quick and he didn’t have time to throw himself on the fire pile so he just shot himself in the head real quick and the goddess’s period blood came out of his face. The end.
Post a Comment