dead poets tell no tales

sometimes it is easier

this way;

alone with dead poets

and other

night time creatures;

she lingers on,

for a moment past the dawn,

stroking softly and gently,

warm and sweet,

allowing you to drink

from her soul,

in exchange for small

bodily secretions,

but then she is gone;

like a butterfly in the wind;

just when you start to become

full of yourself,

like a barroom crapper,

on a hot summer night,

you remember the old man’s words;

‘fuck it kid,

just fuck it all;’

don’t be so damned concerned,

about clarity or understanding,

just pull the hammer back

and let them have it;

both barrels at once;

I don’t need any of this shit,

I got bukowski for fatherly advice,

and dickinson to stroke my cock;

what the hell do I need any of this shit for?

why do I need anything at all?

.

.