Monthly Archives: July 2014

someone out there can write about him better than me ( three poems for Catfish Mcdaris )

Catfish McDaris

“ Being printed with Bukowski and Micheline never hurt, but it sure never put a dime in my pocket “

if Robert Crumb ever got
into the story boards behind all
those Saturday Morning Cartoon Specials
and wrote some nasty shit then
you got yourself a glimpse
of the man…

but the only ones who would ever get to agree
with this are the same ones
who probably knew about this already.

such is the story of small time press.

 

 

i tell you this

you’ll
join
‘em
too
&
you
be
dancin’
around
the
blinding
spotlight.

enjoying
your
last
laugh
after
a
long
wait
on
the
damn
fucking
line.

most
of
the
greats
are
dead,
that’s
the
way
it
is,
man.

i
want
you
here
when
it
happens.

 

 

art – begets – reality rag

there’s a sex joke i know which
tells about a man who came
to the city and crossed paths w/ a
hooker who asked him for sex;
inside the cheap hotel, the hooker
got hot and obliged the man for a 69
but gave up & quit when the hooker
let out a stink right on his face &
the man in a raised voice sayin’ he
wouldn’t be able to take the next 68.

this shit happened to me —-

except i was on top and there was
a bit of turd that came out and the
hooker almost punched me in the face
& went out screaming clutching her
bra on her left hand and running back to
her pimp. my ass almost got kicked by
a bunch of thugs waiting outside hoping
to get some piece of the action. I doubled
her pay and gave her motherfucking
pimp a 100 peso in order to save face.

( dedicated to Catfish McDaris )

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the rain on my parade

i had a dream, it was divine —
bukowski, captain beefheart, kerouac
we’re all hanging out to play on
& read choruses
while i play sax ;
kerouac said. “ but how you’re going to play man? “
“ you don’t know how to use the horn ! “
beefheart standing with his back
on a graffiti sprayed wall, laughing at us
& bukowski too, with beer in his hand.
i said in a kevin hart – spirited way,
“ don’t worry about me ! “
“ i can play this shit ! “
“ let’s go and burn the house down ! “
and so we did.

frantic, i told my wife about it
upon waking up

she replied, it means we’re gonna get broke ————

soon.

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Cold Shoulder, poem by Anggo Genorga

Cold Shoulder, poem by Anggo Genorga.

formerly titled the devil he would care

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it’s not cold shoulder, amigo

damn your suckerfish Bukowski,
they put out my poem using a
different title & without my consent.
i guess the devil he would care
sounds a little defiant of the
industry rising under your name.
don’t get me wrong, it’s not really
much of a hassle to me them
altering the title. it’s a validation.
they’re purist & purist is akin to
being blind & you old man, as
it seems, is their one – eyed king.

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art – begets – reality rag

there’s a sex joke i know which
tells about a man who came
to the city & crossed paths w/ a
hooker who asked him for sex;
inside the cheap hotel, the hooker
got hot & obliged the man for a 69
but gave up & quit when the hooker
let out a stink right on his face &
the man in a raised voice sayin’ he
wouldn’t be able to take the next 68.

this shit happened to me —-

except i was on top & there was
a bit of turd that came out & the
hooker almost punch me in the face
& went out screaming clutching her
bra & running back to her pimp.
my ass almost got kicked by a bunch
of thugs waiting outside hoping to get
some piece of the action. i doubled
her pay & gave her motherfucking
pimp a 100 peso just to save face.

( dedicated to Catfish McDaris )

Leave a comment

Filed under lowbrow poetry