(via literarydrunkard)

Your Dog Dies

it gets run over by a van.

you find it at the side of the road

and bury it.

you feel bad about it.

you feel bad personally,

but you feel bad for your daughter

because it was her pet,

and she loved it so.

she used to croon to it

and let it sleep in her bed.

you write a poem about it.

you call it a poem for your daughter,

about the dog getting run over by a van

and how you looked after it,

took it out into the woods

and buried it deep, deep,

and that poem turns out so good

you’re almost glad the little dog

was run over, or else you’d never

have written that good poem.

then you sit down to write

a poem about writing a poem

about the death of that dog,

but while you’re writing you

hear a woman scream

your name, your first name,

both syllables,

and your heart stops.

after a minute, you continue writing.

she screams again.

you wonder how long this can go on.

And did you get what
you wanted from this life, even so?
I did.
And what did you want?
To call myself beloved, to feel myself
beloved on the earth.

-Raymond Carver

“Final Farewell” by Tom Clark

Great moment in Blade Runner where Roy
Batty is expiring, and talks
about how everything
he’s seen will die with him –
ships on fire off the shoulder of Orion,
sea-beams glittering before
the Tannhauser Gates.

Memory is like molten gold
burning its way through the skin
it stops there.
There is no transfer.
Nothing I have seen
will be remembered
beyond me.
That merciful cleaning
of the windows of creation
will be an excellent thing
my interests notwithstanding.

But then again I’ve never been
near Orion, or the Tannhauser

I’ve only been here.

“The James Bond Movie” by May Swenson

The popcorn is greasy,
and I forgot to bring a
Kleenex. A pill that’s a
bomb inside the stomach
of a man inside The
Embassy blows up. Eruc-
tations of flame, luxur-
ious cauliflowers gigan-
ticize into motion. The
entire 29-ft. screen is
orange, is crackling
flesh and brick bursting,
blackening, smithereened.
I unwrap a Dentyne and,
while jouncing my teeth
in rubber tongue-smart-
ing clove, try with the
2-inch-wide paper to
blot butter off my fingers. A bubble-
bath, room-sized, in which 14 girls,
delectable and sexless, twist-
topped Creamy Freezes (their
blond, red, brown, pinkish, lav-
endar or silver wiglets all screw-
ed that high, and varnished),
scrub-tickle a lone male,
whose chest has just the
right amount and distribu-
tion of not too curly
hair. He’s nervously
pretending to defend
his modesty. His
crotch, below the
waterline, is
also below the
frame—but unsubmerged
all 28 slick foamy boobs.
Their makeup fails to let
the girls look naked.
Caterpillar lashes, black
and thick, lush lips
glossed pink like the gum
I pop and chew. Contacts
on the eyes that are
mostly blue, they’re
nose-perfect replicas of
each other. I’ve got
most of the grease off and
on to this little square
of paper. I’m folding it
now, making creases with
my nails.

give me $315 so I can take this writing class?

I never thought I’d say it, but I miss working at the bar. Need money fast? Sell beer!

from here

from here

from here

Robert Mapplethorpe, Patti Smith, 1976

Robert Mapplethorpe, Patti Smith, 1976