misterpoop

One of my rejected poems. Fuck them.



WHAT RUE IS THIS?



In search of truth?
An human activity, the search for truth is...
I went to my apothecary
and he gave me a good dose of it.
Two hours of pure hell.
There were things I was supposed to have remembered
that I couldnt. Events
that occurred
for the sole purpose
of literature. There was
that large breasted woman lifting
the scotch to her lips. Pastoral,
mundane and clich,
except that she looked at me
and pulled out a gun.
And although the bullet missed
by a foot, Ive been bleeding
for three days now.
I got into a fight too
last night with a bottle of Pernod.
I lost. The trick
I thought, was to sneak up to it
grab it by the neck. All's fair
in love and war. I was looking
for an aphorism. An emotion: You know:
People who throw stones
are worth two in the bush or something. Rocks
are hard and liquor is quicker, all that.
Instead I feel
not good, like Im made out of coat hangers
and someone plugged
me into the socket
and my clothes dont even care.