absconded to Patagonia, so
the house was up for grabs until Turk
and Posthumus parked their Econolines
on Sugarloaf bluff. There were parties
every night, skinny dipping in the pool,
fucking in the hot tub, shagging
on the carpet to the Moody Blues
because the Turk loved the Moody Blues
and when someone dropped an M-80
in the pool and fired roman candles
from the diving board like a stoned
statue of liberty my new girlfriend
and I snuck down to the lake drinking
Annie Green Springs peach wine and shivering
in the shallows, slick minnows on our skin.
We waded through cattails all muddy
and naked in darkness.
Later it was girls in halters smoking
Virginia Slims and snorting lines
and guys drinking flaming shots of wild turkey
and getting all philosophical, tits and
death and weed, and the Turk, the visionary,
was going to hitchhike to Mexico
to find the real shit, something to smooth
the wrinkles in your brain, blind-your-inner-eye
stuff, divinity.
This is how we ushered in our new era,
making way for the new millennium,
a new paradigm, the new order, the
revolution: the gypsies were no longer
gypsies but an orgy of lotus eaters.
We astonished ourselves not so much at
our ecstasy or our excess but our
clumsiness, our awkwardness, the algae scum
in our hair, the claymuck on our feet,
our cold wrinkled fingertips and groins.
We were suddenly the drug of each other's
flesh, and that terrible craving
afterwards.
1 comment:
For what it's worth Master Martin: this is my favorite poem of yours that I've been exposed to. I'll bet you are not surprised. It's been bumping around in my head, showing me a different side to the man who sat in the chair that had it's back turned to me.
Grad school is rumbling in my mind.
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