Howzabout an intimate look into my "artistic" process? Oh come on. It won't be that bad. I promise.
I wrote this in the bathtub today. I had an idea for a poem, but what I wrote didn't please me. Okay, it sucked. I decided to try a bit of free-association. This is what came out.
N/N/N
Never
Notagain
No.
Policemen dance round the barricades
Where my mother slipped and fell.
But how can you tell
I don't like you?
All you know
My mouthwaterin chickpea
Is what's printed
In those scandal sheets
Of bubbles and pollen and sneezes
That follow rules no men make.
(No man that that I know. You?
Nope.
Thought so.)
Where does the blossom sprout
In the businessman's briefcase,
Where numbers foam --
On the beer head
(Use yours, Spinoza)
Or A.G. Bell.
Give 'im a ring
Or a zing zong
Diddly zing.
We expect so much
And so so little
For them.
The lines and ranks and file folders
Hanging in the box,
Top of the Pops.
And snap and crackled
And breathed dust for you,
As the day eats its young
And the night stammers fitfully.
So where does it end?
With warmth
And soap.