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Nov |
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a poem by Willie Smith
VAGRANT RANT
I wander up the alley behind the go-go joint.
My mind has got the trots.
On and on the mouth runs.
The dawn breaks over the rooftops.
The night in the dumpster rots.
My head spins--a spider atop
a top--spiraling threads
inside already threaded cones.
I discuss in circles. Weave in parables.
Slur hyperbolically. Elliptically cuss.
"Section eight got," I point between
walls at the sky, "nothing on me!"
Grind against the dumpster. Nobody
dances for me, so dance for myself I must.
Must of sour wine, stale urine, ripe
puke, long-gone come, float, while I
carry on wrestling to resuscitate
the carrion of lust. Then wander
the alley so sulfurously babbling
none but myself can brook the spew.
I am broken on the wheel spinning behind the eye;
and of every bone in the argument I adore the snap,
as a saint the crack under--to heaven--a door.
My mind has got the trots.
On and on the mouth runs.
The dawn breaks over the rooftops.
The night in the dumpster rots.
My head spins--a spider atop
a top--spiraling threads
inside already threaded cones.
I discuss in circles. Weave in parables.
Slur hyperbolically. Elliptically cuss.
"Section eight got," I point between
walls at the sky, "nothing on me!"
Grind against the dumpster. Nobody
dances for me, so dance for myself I must.
puke, long-gone come, float, while I
carry on wrestling to resuscitate
the carrion of lust. Then wander
the alley so sulfurously babbling
none but myself can brook the spew.
I am broken on the wheel spinning behind the eye;
and of every bone in the argument I adore the snap,
as a saint the crack under--to heaven--a door.