Laxative
By m glenn
I try so often these days to force poetry as if poetry were a bowel movement. It is constipation that kills poets eventually. I walk up to the drug counter a jittery-bottle-blonde tries to act busier than she is, and I ask 'Do you have a laxative for creativity?' She tries a smile. 'No sir but you may try the liquor aisle.' I search the shelves for a friendly face. Gin.Bourbon.Scotch. I decide Vodka looks like a sober fellow. Two hours and twenty shots later I'm ranting at the piss-yellow walls. Asking questions like: Does blue feel like soft hands? can you smell eternity? The roaches hide in the corners laughing at the maniac. 'Hey Timmy remember the last one who lived here?' 'Yeah. The existentialist prick, used to drop acid and piss himself' Splat! No spies, now. I write a few blurry lines in the bug-stained-notebook. Laughing at the methodical maniac. (in the morning it never looks as good) In the bottle there is no poetry only hours in which poetry will cease to nag me The cheap vodka always gives me the shits though. Written October 13th, 2001 © on Oct 12 2001 04:57 PM PST 0 • 10
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"I try so often these days to ..."