The witch, coming up for air was forced to drink from the bottle
Like a habit of cheap wine and pills—
I forced the witch to drink but she only wanted cold pizza
And dreamt of stars the way skinny girls do—
Listening to Babyshambles Kate Moss was caught sniffing coke,
Her shame became her glory though Dougherty is no Rimbaud—
Edna St. Vincent Millay maybe but he will never conquer America
Like Cromwell before him, he will be posthumously executed—
There are too many ******* poets, Jews all, myself included—
Was Bob Dylan a poet, like you or me?
I’m thinking of getting more coffee—
The witch, liquored up, tries to ****** me
But I will never sleep with a Jewish girl again—
I don’t think of ******* a Jew as making love, it’s something else—
But I’ve never slept with an Italian,
That would really be making love—
Even if the pizza were cold and she were hopped up on pills—
I’m thinking of the haunted house on the hill
The people in town say the ghost of the witch lives there—
I’m fed up with air and want to breathe your methane
There is a river running from between your skinny brown legs
Straight into my open moustache mouth,
My lips parched and parted thirsting for your liquid—
I hope you’re drunk enough to see in the dark the way I can,
With your glasses on the side table
I can smell the great outdoors through your open window—
The city a vague memory I do not recall at all,
Dark hallways where we rioted with ******,
Dungeons where you lay sober in the morning—
I am happy you are alive, Pete Sepko,
God has been good to you and all of your friends are grateful—
Are Indian women the most beautiful in the world?
I’ve heard as much and have never seen anything to the contrary—
Every Indian woman I’ve ever met has been beautiful and brilliant
Jewish women on the other hand are hairy monsters that eat brains
Italian women are as nondescript as house paint—
But that doesn’t stop them from being the hottest women on the planet—
Why is that, Pete Sepko?
The witch drinks from the bottle, gags and throws up,
Lying face down in her own *****—
Pete knows the source of this quote:
“Bad music has always been a good reason for going to war”
Here is your gun, **** the blonde first,
Her *** like a Russian winter and me like Napoleon trying to conquer it—
Jerusalem
Maachah was my wife when men had wives they could rely on,
But not in Jerusalem where the signal starts the race to the bar—
I live only a mile away from Jerusalem,
But I know not the way to the city’s gate
And the golden mall is something I don’t need to see—
Maachah has gone shopping with her mother—
Saying “…that is the most ****** poem about my backside
that i have ever read…
and I have you to thank…u are now the reason i ****,
its all for you u tim,
no other can ignite the fire in my soul that creates
the muse for your writing…
if only to keep you rytin…
i shall **** for you, for the world needs ur wisdom,
and i need ur kind words…”
Within and without the *** of the Puerto Rican goddess
Forgiving me my sins whatever they were—
Don’t paint the cadaver white,
She looks better in the dark beside the window
Where bats and Elohim fly into blue night
Of the world’s peace and good, how strange the petit flowers blossom—
Strange flower that grows in your garden
The Spanish priestess looking for the pin-up queen
Was too tired to sleep in the apple orchard
With her wandering flock of sheep, her brain pan level with the ocean—
Closing the eyes of the saint and facing the wall,
Black men gather around Madonna in her coffin
Shoved all the way up the *** of the behemoth—
Vision crippled by daylight, the Bangladesh teenagers are Goths
With smiling faces for fingers—
Maachah can’t read because she’s pink inside
And her mother has to translate German into Latin,
Astonished by the video made on the run—
**** for me in the sun, young hooligan,
I will never tire of your chapped lips and bruised backside
The rumors are that you’ve changed your name