Driving to Wellington
I met a junked up suitcase
full of battered books
hitch hiking
to met a brokenhearted
pencil benzedrine poet
( a fucking immortal barb on a wire)
and a penicillin whore
(to cure his sore weathered cock)
he saw the windows
of other cars
were making
gruesome faces at him
as we cruised
through the reflecting night
you going to europe
he asked
I could feel his nose
poking into my eye
and I could tell
he had never come back
I said one day
stop he screamed
he exited stage left
tottering like a tightrope walker
on the edge of his rope
I wound down the window
to let out the travel fumes
suitcase stuck his head in
his face mashed red
looking like fresh
road killed tomato
he screeched
“Billy Joel fuking lied
vienna don’t wait for anyone
its like the guddam moon
if you don’t go
it’s always that faraway
fuck PYTHAGORAS”
as I drove of
I saw him
spitball a fish
© bg 2011
resurrecting the trashcan bard 