to the whore who took my poems

some say we should keep personal remorse from the


stay abstract, and there is some reason in this,

but jezus;

twelve poems gone and I don't keep carbons and you have


paintings too, my best ones; it's stifling:

are you trying to crash me out like the rest of them?

why didn't you take my money? they usually do

from the sleeping drunken pants sick in the corner.

next time take my left arm or a fifty

but not my poems:

I am not Shakespeare

but sometime simply

there won't be any more, abstract or otherwise;

there'll always be money and whores and drunkards

down to the last bomb,

but as Gos said,

crossing his legs,

I see where I have made plenty of poets

but not so very much