BUGnik (In memoriam Allen Ginsberg (1926-1997))
i'm not into insecticide
i'm a word entomologist way down like Tierra Del Fuego
i drink
kafkaesque
insectitude
like
gregor samsa
waking up
after
a carnival of vodka and dexies and
JISM
--you'll be late for work!--
yeh i can only pray for more pristine hangovers like this:
the clang of the Powell Street cable car
winos pissing and yelling
the struggle of the lumpen
lumpy proletariat
to find out if
you got a light buddy?
--oh no man i'm a poet who bathes
i don't give nothing to strangers--
( yeh cause you think i'm more of a six-legged winged poet
a BUGnik
having a Ferlinghetti word sandwich and a
and a
Corso shit
and a
Ginsberg blow job
and a
Kerouac wine barf)
I said
--Nah man I'm a professional
lived here in the Hotel H,
the walls sag like William Burroughs'
balls
oh FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK
here comes the night manager
and i'm past due the rent
but rent is theft
and so I wanna strangle the
night manager and
then read Rimbaud to her corpse
but we take it out in trade and
I give her tired old dungeness crab snatch
three hours of head in exchange for three days of
happy residence in this
roach motel
she leaves satisfied and smoking a lucky strike
and oh fuck
i just forget what i was talking about--
BUGsville