Why Does a Caveman Paint on the Walls?
Funked obsessed aromatic with the bangs of
Unsuspecting women for
They are not lonely like poor Vincent van Gogh.
The fire extinguisher to my hapless heart
Prepared for the bent fire of Lucifer, Lucifer hell. When is there a fire, save for my lust, in
A coffee café so unrelevant like others filled
With failed poets with mother complexes studded with bagels? What—he
Writes poetry, so strange, like a madman obsessed
With Jodie Foster or whores? Take me to Panama or to Tibet, lonesome state of Buddha and
Contented men not mad or bipolar, land where I
Have sex fever 12. The bells of gray-rock, concrete churches ring to heaven God, for
It is now 10 a.m., my neck contagiously bent to the
Bangs of unsuspecting women, who are
Not lonely, or clamped to
Beauty outrageous sometimes.