Dead Immortals

Shakespeare snorts cocaine on the Cathedral steps
Porcelainhands clap, clap, clap at the horny lovers and bitchy queens, he plans their deaths
The tempest of human idiocracy and naive lust is his midnight summer dream

Thoreau nibbles on turquoise shrooms, lurking
Somewhere with the bark and the swans and the silence away from industrial smog
To grow cabbage for money, to grow cabbage for money for hunger, would be a civil disobedience

Sexton with her golden dragon eyes injects a wet stream of heroin
The hyperemic needle invades the hand of self pleasure, intellect, and granite strength
Too much of a woman for the barrel headed men, to live or die was the guru’s motto

Ginsberg smokes a joint of blue dream in the caves of a white asylum
Eyes burning more than the greasy hair of an angelheaded hipster in Arizona humidity
His thoughts fat, howling and howling at the rot you and your mother and your priest make

Plath lights thin peach cigarettes that convince doctors that tobacco is medicine
She smashes the cradles, the pans, the music box, and the belljar
To hell with the antidepressants, she’s off to cross the water and slumber under winter trees

Bukowski gulps the dark whiskey at the alley bar near Hollywood & Western
Raising his chin at the women with pillars for legs and globes for breasts
He drowns the bluebird and slaps it with his tired hand, of pain and knowledge and one liners

I sip white champagne at the cathedral steps
Writes, writes, writes, until the sound of the pen tip drones out the altos and mating crows
A bronze man high off the animalistic lust for the handwritten jewels planted by the dead immortals

-Brian A. Baker


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