Cisco Kid• Show poetry

When you're lost in the rain in Juarez
And it's Eastertime too
And your gravity fails
And negativity don't pull you through
Don't put on any airs
When you're down on Rue Morgue Avenue
They got some hungry women there
And they really make a mess outa you

Now if you see Saint Annie
Please tell her thanks a lot
I cannot move
My fingers are all in a knot
I don't have the strength
To get up and take another shot
And my best friend, my doctor
Won't even say what it is I've got...
~Bob Dylan



                      "some people never go crazy.
                      what truly horrible lives
                      they must lead."
                      ~Charles Bukowski


"My affections, being focused on a few people, are not spread
all over Hell in a vile attempt to placate sulky worthless shits"
~William S. Burroughs



"Delilah played the dead girl at the freak show
She smiles like a ghost
Like zombies eatin' dust in Mexico
Life dries cold beneath the dead soul lights
She asked if it would hurt
I smiled and said no
The lie ran down my chin like embryo
She smiles like a corpse
Like zombies eatin' dust in Mexico..."
~Dax Riggs              




                      "as God said, crossing his legs,
                      I see where I have made plenty of poets
                      but not so very much poetry..."
                      ~Bukowski



 
"I believe in the soul, the cock, the pussy, the small of a woman's back, the hanging curve ball, high fiber, good scotch, that the novels of Susan Sontag are self-indulgent, overrated crap. I believe Lee Harvey Oswald acted alone. I believe there ought to be a constitutional amendment outlawing Astroturf and the designated hitter. I believe in the sweet spot, soft-core pornography, opening your presents Christmas morning rather than Christmas Eve and I believe in long, slow, deep, soft, wet kisses that last three days."  
~Crash Davis, "Bull Durham"




"We are the hollow men
We are the stuffed men
Leaning together
Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!
Our dried voices, when
We whisper together
Are quiet and meaningless
As wind in dry grass
Or rats' feet over broken glass
In our dry cellar..."

from T.S. Eliot's
The Hollow Men