I write like Hank,
carrying a sixpack to the couch
slouching down with laptop
towards Charles on his throne
of empty bottles.
Last week – grey dawn of Chichester back alley – moon cast behind the clouds like owl eye – I tried to write like Allen – O’ Allen – smoke of marijuana stick illuminated by car lights – as the bums perked their ears – and the widows of the city drew their curtains –
– as the seraphs on the roof top stared up towards the sky – the gargoyles of the cathedral raising eyebrows – Jessica at home frowning with disapproval
-my hand at base tapping off ash onto the sidewalk – stale taste on tongue and burning sensation in throat – paranoia of Naomi already setting in – no desire to write for Allen anymore (much as I wanted to)
So I tried to write like Jack, all danger and delight just after midnight, long stretches of open road and notebook held between legs to keep from flying out the window and right off down the street to be found by some hustler at daybreak, left to decipher lines scrawled in the glow of traffic lights at Brighton intersections, sat beside Matt, best driver in the south, a real Cassady type of lad, square jaw and piercing blue eyes right to make any Mrs this side of Southampton swoon by the bar like the belles we found later that night when my writing was done, only for scribblings to be looked at the next day in horrible hangover, incomprehensible after it all, the sad tragedy of another night spent in good company between southern thighs with notebook on the nightstand forgotten for the moment.
I wanted to write like Burroughs, but couldn’t find a score, or a doctor to fill out a script. Blame it on the machine.