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Life after death? Number five (and the final) of this series

Finally I have reached the last of the five old poems that I pulled out of the notebook. This one has me channeling Ginsberg and messing about with tabulation. June 1996, and I really must have been an enfant terrible.

I don't care what anyone says, I still like this one. Far more so than a certain poetry tutor at university anyway. I should post some of his poetry one day, that really would be good for a laugh!

[MEOW. Kitty, get back in the cage!]


The Outer Hebrides


hip cool

              cat

knows the score.



sweet sixteen and

                               never

                                           been

                                                    fucked

in his arse.



one hundred

                       and fifty dollars

is all

it takes

              he fakes

                              for fifty more।
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Comments

blackie said…
Heh he. I hope you know this one by heart so if you visit the maison d'Etre coffee house you can indulge in a little beatnik action. Beret optional.
4 August 2008 at 19:59
Debbie Courson Smith said…
Perfect for the poetry slams held in this country.
5 August 2008 at 01:00
stromsjo said…
Well, I'd say someone should stick to his day job... ;)
6 August 2008 at 06:57
Kris McCracken said…
Per, that is very cruel [even if true] ;)

I don’t think that there is much money in poetry anyway, these days. I always regarded it as my weakest talent in the world of writing.

I’m a prose man, you see.
7 August 2008 at 15:07
stromsjo said…
You certainly have a way with words. Incidentally, I learned today on Ackworth born, gone West that there's a poetry film coming up. Whaddaya know.
12 August 2008 at 05:59
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