untitled

sort of plagiarised from one of Bukowski's collections

from "neither Pynchon nor Dan Brown"

young young young, searching only for the Word
tongue shapes words drifting unheard
into a graveyard of the weird
bourbon burning numb in your veins
pretty girls, shining lips, bright pastels
untouchable
sex deities shrieking sordid ballads
the great orgy of Twenty-One rushing by

sifting through the madness for the Word,
the Line
a Way,
hoping I’ll see their eyes widen
when they say
“Shit!  Rudd’s got talent!”