A Statement from Some Guy on the Train
He told me that he liked the women who were amputated from the neck
down-no
bones to pick clean after making love
No discussions
About anything
Worthwhile
This is the Way Some Get Famous
He reads daily from the Classics and
Pulp magazines to "equal out his Artistic
Explosion."
This is what he calls living
on the edge-- with the broken glass
from the dark alleys his poetry is based
upon still entrenched on the balls of his feet.
"You must bleed poetry and literature,"
he once told the patrons at a bookstore, caring
less that no one was paying any attention.
His bookshelf is filled with magazines
that feature scantly clad women and
outrageous headlines which try to
shock and terrorize the average
reader.
Poetry anthologies clutter his
floor-he dreams of becoming
the next icon of the literary world.
"The choice of champions," he
mutters to himself-as he swills
another shot of inflamed Whiskey.
He stares at the mirror-sees death and
comic relief adding to his protruding
waistline
Finally, he falls to the floor,
heroically vomiting on his
collection of Arthur Rimbauld
Poems-and drunkenly falls asleep.
An idiot smile upon his face.
