For Jack and Allen.

For Jack and Allen.

I’m hallucinating spiders.
Cracked benzedrine haziness
smoking and supping ethanol fumes
from cracked glass, dirty frompaw prints
and titted & cocked filth.

Jazzed up and panting. I’m listening
to the other room; the other world. I can
hear smirks, whisperings of zips
and ripping of buttons.

Soft piano titters;
bassy cello and 50’s limp wrists
flail to the Beat. It’s all there,
the visions of the Road, howling & gnarling
& begging & cavorting up through my back
and into the base of my skull.

The Number Four book sits slapped
and curled waiting to the bent and used;
thumbed and flicked by children & childrens


3 comments on “For Jack and Allen.

  1. Your poem speaks to me! I’d love to share it with my readers at Please advise.
    Mark Butkus

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