by Randall Rogers
I don’t do much.
Except speed
And spend sixteen hours a day or so
In front of my computer
Watching porn, music DVDs, smoking
Drinking water, masturbating
And strumming my guitar.
I could get ambitious
And get out the old
Songbook
And try to memorize
Again the words and chords
To another Dead tune.
February 18, 2009
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
Blog Archive
-
▼
2009
(479)
-
▼
February
(46)
- The Champ
- MY SISTER SAYS BUT DOESN’T EVERYONE WASTE THEIR LIFE?
- takes all kinds
- For One Night Only
- Sunday Morning
- All I need to know.
- I kill it.
- bacon lips
- The End of the World.
- Backing out of the parking lot
- Great Russia
- lamb
- THE CAT’S YELP IN BLACK LIGHT
- Bombs Away!
- Stain
- Bill Burroughs
- all those big words
- UPON WAKING UP TOO EARLY
- 10,000 THINGS
- I Don’t Do Much
- IF MY GRANDMOTHER COULD HAVE WRITTEN A POSTCARD TO...
- Failed Suicide
- according to the geneva convention
- Looking for Kerouac
- joe the poet
- Tuesday
- ralph was here
- FAT
- A Mother's Guilt
- The Mirror
- 9 to 5
- another cancer poem
- Genius
- YELLOW ROSES
- Lux Interior -- R.I.P. in Zombie Hell
- Coney Island Bird Girl
- ode to february
- OCTOBER DREAM
- THE QUESTION
- in the interim
- dying alone in a small room while listening to bad...
- BEING JEWISH IN A SMALL TOWN
- the good news is zimbabwe introduced a 50 million ...
- LAP DANCE
- Too much or nothing
- My Home Borough
-
▼
February
(46)
0 comments:
Post a Comment