POEMS TO CELEBRATE MY FRIENDS, PEOPLE I KNEW OR HEARD OF, AT LEAST ONCE, AND THEN THEY DIED OR WILL DIE AND I WANNA BE PREPARED:
“For your information gangsta poetry in this country isn’t Bukowski’s invention, it’s mine. I’ve been making this kind of stuff since 1970 give or take. And, it has nothing to do with Bukowski’s style or subject matter. Bukowski was the pornagrapher of pussy and a damned good one at that. I’m the pornographer of violence.”
-TODD MOORE-(www.m-etropolis.com/wordpress)
stop sucking on Todd Moore's Dead dick
ode to the bullet-wielding
gangster
dillinger dogma
poems I don't get
but ur take of them
is worse
or ur take of him is worse
I guess
I never knew him
or you
but feeling fully qualified
to pass judgement
in poetic form
I find it
sickening
pathetic
and sucking his dead dick
well,
it's just in bad taste
(end poem)
the corpse of Tim Murray
still has reddish hair
and wears glasses
like heaven in a cup
smells like pumpkins
and whip cream
don't judge me for
sniffing his sweater vest
i'm lost on the highway
between Popesville
and Agnostica
Broncho John
is weeping
when you're gone
let there be hamsters for all
and depends undergarments
just in case
may there be poetry grenades
sloshing around the room
til we're all sloshing
to that private tune
that drives Danny's Big Banana
I have never sent a poem that rhymes
to anyone else that matters
and when you're gone
I still won't tell
that one secret
but I can't speak for that
guy sleeping/not sleeping
on the chaise lounge
he
will probably tell
