Email as if in Dublin
I have scoured the computer box six days now,
My email, tipped and drained in Dublin,
And the broad I consider is from Dublin, too, I think.
I chomp a bitter pipe between my 56 teeth,
Irrelevant sometimes irreverent, tragic, boring, alone, inebriated, masturbated,
Then hung over by silly, fleeting passion.
Frankenstein suggested; she said yes;
And I now ask nervously like the dresser in the movie “The Dresser”
After many ingenious God days:
Why am I not as good looking as James Dean?
I see bourbon from Scotland on the shelf
And too would blow my gray brain out on three thin sticks of marijuana—
True. But today I am confined to a tepee with no stars or moons to gaze;
And sometimes I pray to God, as if holy,
Because little black birds negotiate air
Before the 20-story Hilton across the street from my rectangle, 24th-story mew.
So I shall drink bourbon and hooch some acid like Hunter S. Thompson tomorrow.
Stiff strawberries await me this evening in the freezer,
Where dull, but elaborate, infinity lurks furtive in cubes of ice;
And I think I shall check the U.S. Post Office for letters now,
For I am always being told that I owe $95
To a company I have never heard of.
Furthermore, I could never understand the plays of William Shakespeare.