#1993 #AmericanWriters #ThePleasuresOfTheDamned
you go for these wenches, she said… you go for these whores, I’ll bore you. I don’t want to be shit on anymore… I said,
I was shacked with a 24 year old girl from New York City for two weeks—about the time of the garbage
no one is sorry I am leaving, not even I; but there should be a minstrel or at least a glass of wine. bothers the young most, I think:
are more beautiful than movie stars and they lounge on the lawn sunbathing
I was surprised the next morning when April knocked on the door. April was the one on ATD who had been at Harry Ascot’s party and who had left with the speed freak. It was 11 am. April ...
Some say we should keep personal r… poem, stay abstract, and there is some r… but jezus; twelve poems gone and I don’t keep…
I was sitting in my shorts one afternoon a week later. There was a tender little knock on the door. “Just a moment,” I said. I put on a robe and opened the door. “We’re two girls from G...
I paid this one’s fare all the way… to San Francisco then flew up to meet her at her br… and I got drunk and talked all night about a redhe…
the critics now have me drinking champagne and driving a BMW and also married to a socialite from
oh, how worried they are about my soul! I get letters the phone rings... “are you going to be all right?”
I got back, made love to Lydia several times, got in a fight with her, and left L. A. International late one morning to give a reading in Arkansas. I was lucky enough to have a seat by ...
the elephants are caked with mud a… and the rhinos don’t move the zebras are stupid dead stems and the lions don’t roar the lions don’t care
I went upstairs to 409, had a stiff scotch and water, took some money out of the top drawer, went down the steps, got in my car and drove to the racetrack. I got there in time for the f...
I got in the shower and burned my balls last Wednesday. met this painter called Spain, no, he was a cartoonist,
I have just spent one—hour—and—a—h… handicapping tomorrow’s card. when am I going to get at the poem… well, they’ll just have to wait