Written by
Maggie Estep |
Liner Notes - (from Love Is A Dog From Hell)
My friend Jenny is really
worried that people are going to follow me around and send me dead animal
parts and doll heads as a result of this song but please, if you feel inclined
to send me dead animal parts, think it through.
Thanks.
Stalk me
I once wrote a poem called **** ME
So stalk me
I'm asking for it
Don't take your medication
Stalk ME
Write to me and say Dear Maggie I love what you do
You've got a really big mouth
Actually your mouth is a little too big
Anyone ever tell you what a big-mouthed ***** you are
God, you know I'm kinda sick of you
I mean, what's so great about you
How come you got on TV
I could do that
You ain't ****
You suck
I hate you
but I love you
I love you because I hate you
Can I have your children?
Will you shack up with me?
Oh sure
I'll shack up with you
I love stalkers
Especially when they hate me
But you knew that
That's why you stalk me
You're not fooled by my clever ruse
***** goddess? I think not
I'm just a sucker for punishment
So punish me
Spank me
Dominate my sock drawer
And stalk me
Don't stalk Jodie Foster, David Letterman or John S.
Hall
Don't go through their trash
Their trash is boring
play with my trash
Hurry, I'm waiting
I'm pleading
Just come on and do it
Chew me choke me and stalk me
That'll teach me to write all that goddamned poetry
|
Written by
Charles Bukowski |
she was hot, she was so hot
I didn't want anybody else to have her,
and if I didn't get home on time
she'd be gone, and I couldn't bear that-
I'd go mad.
.
.
it was foolish I know, childish,
but I was caught in it, I was caught.
I delivered all the mail
and then Henderson put me on the night pickup run
in an old army truck,
the damn thing began to heat halfway through the run
and the night went on
me thinking about my hot Miriam
and jumping in and out of the truck
filling mailsacks
the engine continuing to heat up
the temperature needle was at the top
HOT HOT
like Miriam.
leaped in and out
3 more pickups and into the station
I'd be, my car
waiting to get me to Miriam who sat on my blue couch
with scotch on the rocks
crossing her legs and swinging her ankles
like she did,
2 more stops.
.
.
the truck stalled at a traffic light, it was hell
kicking it over
again.
.
.
I had to be home by 8,8 was the deadline for Miriam.
I made the last pickup and the truck stalled at a signal
1/2 block from the station.
.
.
it wouldn't start, it couldn't start.
.
.
I locked the doors, pulled the key and ran down to the
station.
.
.
I threw the keys down.
.
.
signed out.
.
.
your goddamned truck is stalled at the signal,
I shouted,
Pico and Western.
.
.
.
.
.
I ran down the hall,put the key into the door,
opened it.
.
.
her drinking glass was there, and a note:
sun of a *****:
I waited until 5 after ate
you don't love me
you sun of a *****
somebody will love me
I been wateing all day
Miriam
I poured a drink and let the water run into the tub
there were 5,000 bars in town
and I'd make 25 of them
looking for Miriam
her purple teddy bear held the note
as he leaned against a pillow
I gave the bear a drink, myself a drink
and got into the hot
water.
|
Written by
John Berryman |
I am the little man who smokes & smokes.
I am the girl who does know better but.
I am the king of the pool.
I am so wise I had my mouth sewn shut.
I am a government official & a goddamned fool.
I am a lady who takes jokes.
I am the enemy of the mind.
I am the auto salesman and lóve you.
I am a teenage cancer, with a plan.
I am the blackt-out man.
I am the woman powerful as a zoo.
I am two eyes screwed to my set, whose blind—
It is the Fourth of July.
Collect: while the dying man,
forgone by you creator, who forgives,
is gasping 'Thomas Jefferson still lives'
in vain, in vain, in vain.
I am Henry Pussy-cat! My whiskers fly.
|
Written by
Richard Jones |
I, too, would ease my old car to a stop
on the side of some country road
and count the stars or admire a sunset
or sit quietly through an afternoon.
.
.
.
I'd open the door and go walking
like James Wright across a meadow,
where I might touch a pony's ear and
break into blossom; or, like Hayden
Carruth, sustained by the sight
of cows grazing in pastures at night,
I'd stand speechless in the great darkness;
I'd even search on some well-traveled road
like Phil Levine in this week's New Yorker,
the poet driving his car to an orchard
outside the city where, for five dollars,
he fills a basket with goddamned apples.
|
Written by
Jack Spicer |
Rest and look at this goddamned wheelbarrow.
Whatever
It is.
Dogs and crocodiles, sunlamps.
Not
For their significance.
For their significant.
For being human
The signs escape you.
You, who aren't very bright
Are a signal for them.
Not,
I mean, the dogs and crocodiles, sunlamps.
Not
Their significance.
|