Just suppose I were a poet.
I could paint prisons red and gold,
give Jesus an erection and a smile,
turn wild roses into permanance
and restore giddy laughter to the dead
just by putting down my cigarette,
wrapping my fingers around a pen
and loving the paper properly-
skip right past the ‘confession’,
‘Our Father in Heaven’ and
go straight to what I know is right
and no one could stop me.
"Good taste is the death of art." Truman Capote
Check in at The Cirrhosis Motel with your host, freelance literary loiterer and epicure, Dennis McBride
photo by John Hogl
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