I am Jane Goodall's Tanzanian monkeys typing about bananas.
My fingers are Santa's little helpers.
My hope is a sporadic rainfall - yet a torrential downpour in all creative environments.
I am Theseus, unspooling golden yarn.
Sisyphus, sweating uphill.
Bukowski,
scribbling away
in rooming houses.
A river always flowing.
I am the nightmare of stagnancy and a God of Imagination.
I wrote this a while back... God DAMN, I love me some Bukowski.
Let’s be the Bonnie and Clyde of authors— Would that be Sylvia and Charles? Or maybe Hemingway and Virginia Woolfe? But I’m the orphaned love-child of Bukowski and Plath, A seed planted in the Bell jar that stood beside the bed Covered in tangled sheets and sweaty limbs, Grinding groins and panted meter.
So I guess We Can’t be them… Because I already am.
It is understood that senior management staff of some pro-Tang media outlets then told their reporters that it was sheer speculation spread by the Leung camp and they therefore need not ask Tang about it.
I wrote this a while back...
ReplyDeleteGod DAMN, I love me some Bukowski.
Let’s be the Bonnie and Clyde of authors—
Would that be Sylvia and Charles?
Or maybe Hemingway and Virginia Woolfe?
But I’m the orphaned love-child of Bukowski and Plath,
A seed planted in the Bell jar that stood beside the bed
Covered in tangled sheets and sweaty limbs,
Grinding groins and panted meter.
So I guess
We
Can’t be them…
Because I already am.
It is understood that senior management staff of some pro-Tang media outlets then told their reporters that it
ReplyDeletewas sheer speculation spread by the Leung camp and they therefore need not
ask Tang about it.