Note Thirty-Seven

Note Thirty-Seven

Draft 2

By: Chase L. Currie

 

Ah, Hell,

                I’m just a piss poor poet

Who wants to write the Blues

And lyrics like Mr. Waits

                                Or

Some Irish drunk

 

But all I seem to be

Able to ink out

Of these old bones

                Caged in a young body

Is a rotten work

With no tune

 

I’ve studied the Raven

Haunting Poe

To build mood

 

Failed in the shadow

From out no souls comes

Strolling in my lines

 

Ah, s**t,

                It’s gone - again

Lost in the hazy smoke

of the Voodoo Medicine

Where the Hoodoo burns

Deep in the swampy South

 

I zip up my fly

Take the bottle

                                And

The cigarette between my lips

 

Sat on the park bench

Where the old hound dog

Bukowski was to meet me

 

He got drunk

Passed out with some blonde

To feel alone

 

Instead, a Frost came

Along looking for some Cash

Asked which path he stumbles down

 

Ah, Hell, - I said

                I’m just a piss poor poet

                Take neither

And have a drink with me instead.