Was Annabelle just a woman in Poe’s dream?
Was there really an angel on Janet Frame’s wooden table?
Did Emily Dickinson really wear white for the rest of her life?
Was Dante just a bitter prick to tell people about a red man with horn’s on his head
Didn’t think it was Halloween too soon on the corner of his calendar
I resembled all the traits these writer’s made of their spoken lives just like Bukowski
If he did live in many rooms and lost his brain cells in bottles
Maybe in the afterlife Burroughs will give me pointers on drugs along with Thompson. Meeting Rimbaud ask him if he ever was in the closet. Took an eyeful of literature before high school, made friends with boozers, losers and psychopaths. Don’t quote me because I cherish them so much I know I’ll try to make it like them soon, dead yet my heroes they remain alive
WRITE ME OFF WRITE ME OFFF Write me down there’s no pen and papers around scrawl on the wall have a purpose to write them all