Second Poem
by Peter Orlovsky
Morning again, nothing has to be done,
maybe buy a piano or make fudge.
At least clean the room up for sure like my farther I’ve done flick
the ashes & butts over the bed side on the floor.
But frist of all wipe my glasses and drink the water
to clean the smelly mouth.
A nock on the door, a cat walks in, behind her the Zoo’s baby
elephant demanding fresh pancakes-I cant stand these
hallucinations aney more.
Time for another cigerette and then let the curtains rise, then I
knowtice the dirt makes a road to the garbage pan
No ice box so a dried up grapefruit.
Is there any one saintly thing I can do to my room, paint it pink
maybe or instal an elevator from the bed to the floor,
maybe take a bath on the bed?
Whats the use of liveing if I cant make paradise in my own
room-land?
For this drop of time upon my eyes
like the endurance of a red star on a cigerate
makes me feel life splits faster than sissors.
I know if I could shave myself the bugs around my face would
disappear forever.
The holes in my shues are only temporary, I understand that.
My rug is dirty but whose that isent?
There comes a time in life when everybody must take a piss in
the sink -here let me paint the window black for a minute.
Thro a plate & brake it out of naughtiness-or maybe just
innocently accidentally drop it wile walking around the
tabol.
Before the mirror I look like a sahara desert gost,
or on the bed I resemble a crying mummey hollaring for air,
or on the tabol I feel like Napoleon.
But now for the main task of the day; wash my underwear;
two months abused; what would the ants say about that?
How can I wash my clothes; why I’d, I’d, I’d be a woman if I did
that.
No, I’d rather polish my sneakers than that and as for the floor
its more creative to paint it then clean it up.
As for the dishes I can do that for I am thinking of getting a job in
a lunchenette.
My life and my room are like two huge bugs following me
around the globe.
Thank god I have an innocent eye for nature.
I was born to remember a song about love; on a hill a butterfly
makes a cup that I drink from, walking over a bridge of
flowers.
Dec. 27th, 1957, Paris
End of the poem
15 random poems
- Infant Joy by William Blake
- One Being Brought From Africa To America by Phillis Wheatley
- Hymn From A Watermelon Pavilion by Wallace Stevens
- Владимир Маяковский – Эй, шахтер! В опасности трудовая республика твоя! (Агитплакаты)
- Robert Burns: My Eppie Adair:
- Robert Burns: Epistle To John Maxwell, ESQ., Of Terraughty : On His Birthday.
- minding love by Raj Arumugam
- A Nativity by William Butler Yeats
- On The Decline Of Oracles by Sylvia Plath
- The Pact by Sharon Olds
- A Girdle by William Strode
- Aubade by Philip Larkin
- Sonnet 94: They that have power to hurt and will do none by William Shakespeare
- On the Countess of Burlington Cutting Paper poem – Alexander Pope poems | Poetry Monster
- Corinna, from Athens, to Tanagra by Walter Savage Landor
Some external links:
Duckduckgo.com – the alternative in the US
Quant.com – a search engine from France, and also an alternative, at least for Europe
Yandex – the Russian search engine (it’s probably the best search engine for image searches).
