To The Whore Who Took My Poems
Some say we should keep personal remorse from the poem,Stay abstract, and there is some reason in this, but Jesus;Twelve poems gone and I don't keep carbons and you have my paintings too, my best ones; it's stifling:Are you trying to crush me out like the rest of them?Why didn't you take my money? they usually doFrom the sleeping drunken pants sick in the corner.Next time take my left arm or a fiftyBut not my poems !I'm not ShakespeareBut sometime simplyThere won't be any more, abstract or otherwise;There'll always be money and whores and drunkardsDown to the last bomb,But as God said,Crossing his legs,I see where I have made plenty of poetsBut not so very muchPoetry