poem I in The Chelsea Chronicles
He is no child
and yet spring flows so amply from his loins.
Where has his protagonist gone?
The Shepherds of Drink wade in his songwriter’s swagger,
indeed, saber-toothed revelers inspired.
Noxious devotees vapidly denote the man’s strength;
yet he professes lark, and lunacy bites their flattering pallor.
The ladies in the gaggle coo.
He does not see them, his eyes glazed over by politics.
Drink drenches his tooth, incises his bliss.
For them, a bliss confrontation.
They float home believing they’ve touched rays.
And he slinks back to the Whore in the Ruse.
He fucks her, nearly loses his teeth.
Her hallow could not care less for his demonic need.
He’s a franchise, nameless and green. She, a cunt, the Sistine.
Truly he seeks to touch them,
but returns to his own puddle unmoved. This
on the floor
of a stranger’s apartment
demonically smoking cigarettes, skinny and hungry.
He waits for the possession to pass
and for the world’s blasted love to return to him at last.