My Shoulders are for Touching
Goulet
Posts: 918
Hey Bub,
that your taxi, Bub?
Think you give me a lift, Bub?
Think you stop for me, Bub?
I got a whole package of books and poems,
I'd even sell you some and my soul
for a ride, Bub.
Why's your taxi so clean?
Why's your tan-lines so even?
Why's you looking at me like I'd like to die?
Bub, you a particular genius,
but really,
hubble-bubble,
hubble-trouble,
hubble-lubbard,
but really,
if anything does make sense,
like sex or grief
or spinnning, whining, fluttering tops
or paper baskets or waste
or anything like that T.V. commerical said,
does it take you by the back of the pants
or roll you in a joint and wake you up.
Bub, what you saying, Bub?
You no longer care about anything?
You no longer care about everything?
How's that possible, Bub?
You turning into a street-whore like all these other kids?
You turning to the gutters
and some kind of life that's a little more real,
a little less perfect,
a little more sad,
a little more dramatic,
but all-in-all a lot more beautiful?
Lubbard-mubble,
Lubbard-trouble,
the cat is no longer on my back.
Only when I shave in the basment bathroom
did he jump up there.
Seems like only yesterday,
or twenty years ago,
or something that never happened to me,
or something like that.
Bub, you ever realize
how no one our age can end a sentence
or a thought
or a dialogue
with anything other then,
"something like that,"
or "you know,"
or a combination of the two
or something like that,
not to be too pretentious,
even though this is a poem,
and they all are, and junk.
What if no one could dream, Bub?
What would everyone think of themselves and us?
that your taxi, Bub?
Think you give me a lift, Bub?
Think you stop for me, Bub?
I got a whole package of books and poems,
I'd even sell you some and my soul
for a ride, Bub.
Why's your taxi so clean?
Why's your tan-lines so even?
Why's you looking at me like I'd like to die?
Bub, you a particular genius,
but really,
hubble-bubble,
hubble-trouble,
hubble-lubbard,
but really,
if anything does make sense,
like sex or grief
or spinnning, whining, fluttering tops
or paper baskets or waste
or anything like that T.V. commerical said,
does it take you by the back of the pants
or roll you in a joint and wake you up.
Bub, what you saying, Bub?
You no longer care about anything?
You no longer care about everything?
How's that possible, Bub?
You turning into a street-whore like all these other kids?
You turning to the gutters
and some kind of life that's a little more real,
a little less perfect,
a little more sad,
a little more dramatic,
but all-in-all a lot more beautiful?
Lubbard-mubble,
Lubbard-trouble,
the cat is no longer on my back.
Only when I shave in the basment bathroom
did he jump up there.
Seems like only yesterday,
or twenty years ago,
or something that never happened to me,
or something like that.
Bub, you ever realize
how no one our age can end a sentence
or a thought
or a dialogue
with anything other then,
"something like that,"
or "you know,"
or a combination of the two
or something like that,
not to be too pretentious,
even though this is a poem,
and they all are, and junk.
What if no one could dream, Bub?
What would everyone think of themselves and us?
Post edited by Unknown User on
0
Comments
That's sad! :(
"what if no one could dream"
that's what your enemies want, DREAM i say to you, dream
your dreamworld is precious...
I can't tell you what, though.
So I won't.
But quite an enjoyable read.