Sunday, April 17, 2016


And fat and bubbly too, eating
spaghetti with a pitchfork, holding
hands with some Rhine Maiden in
a gabardine frock, watching both
Dylan and Ginsberg talk themselves
to death. I skateboard to Hell with
your mother's intentions.
Up on the narrow stage, the wide
men sing  -  old warbling songs
of the Polish woods, like Danusia
always mentions. Dark hounds and
horses in the very dense forests. All
I ever picture is Transylvania and 
those vampire princes who come 
in from the cold. My heart has
been married to those tales
for years. Give me your
old pierogi hand.

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