Cultura

Cultura

It is a struggle to find
A man my age
Who doesn’t want to be Holden Caufield,
Or Bukowski, or Norman Mailer
Beating him senseless.
With gusto.

I want to be Edie Sedgwick
Drug addicted, and fabulous.

I want to stroll down 5th avenue
In black tights
And nothing else.

Turn my face into a clown mask.
Central Park working girl.
With much to risk,
But marvelous shoes.

I want black turtlenecks
Cigarette holders, brown cigarettes.
They look hip,
I dig it.

Black everything
As a matter of fact
I’ll open my closet
And channel Holly Golightly
In the book, not the movie.

Sometimes I feel like all of New York
Is laughing at me.

Songs of Marcel

In an anemic world

I am absurd. I am a fish dying on a barren shore.

I am Sophocles, Spartacus,
And St. Sarcastic,
Patron saint of lost causes.

If canned soup and urinals are art,
I am a narcissistic, artistic, dilettante…
Deceiver seducer of mediocre meddling minor characters of a silent film played backwards with Italian dubs.

Some like it hot,
I like it tepid, sometimes harshly cold,
But never hot…
Never the speed with which mothlights moved across the empty screen.

And I am big,

It’s the pictures that got small.

Pull My Daisy

Pull my daisy, fill my cup.

Fill my heart with music…

Don’t play dating

Games.

Love me for me.
Sans redundancy.

You shake with ambition.
I shake in anticipation of your

Determination.

So pull my

Hair,
But not too hard,
I might get

Weary of your incoming intellectual distraction.

Swill and sow,
And swine alike we all

Drink from the same glass,

Don’t we?