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Array
(
[sid] => 13421
[catid] => 1
[aid] => Mick
[title] => Bent (Cuts 1, 2 and 3)
[time] => 2003-02-27 05:40:00
[hometext] =>
[bodytext] => Back when I was born, the poet
could write about the times like a photograph of Lewis and Clark hitchhiking on an old dirt road. There was really something lurking under those pretty neighborhoods and pretty slums. They found the perfect world was finally sitting right there in their coat pockets. That was nineteen fifty two. I didn't know what I was missing. Eleven years. Feared Communists. Loved Rock 'n' Roll. Johnson swore in, but I thought he was ugly, so I didn't like him, I never did. My teachers were always saying that I was going to be an artist. I never really understood what the whole "going to be" thing was all about, but I knew I wanted to sell paintings. Ironically, I remember loving van Gogh. * Back in nineteen seventy four, the poet could find licence in any café, kiosk, fingerprint or trash bin, like shopping in a clock store but never knowing what time you should leave. Somehow over the years, I'd become another hep sexy beatnik rock star caught in his own sense of fashion. I wanted Bowie and Jagger to suck me dry when I got there, because I was going to be famous. I could feel it. Eleven years. Still alive. Still waiting for Orwell. Time had turned into waking up and smoke breaks. I'd become slightly known by saying things like, "I never assume a comb-over is intentional. I just imagine it happened to fall that way when it dried." Unfortunately, free literary magazines didn't go far when I needed to eat, drink, smoke, or move my ass from point R to point T. So, I worked from here to there; from place to place. I was what I used to dream of being. I was the starving artist. * Back in nineteen ninety six, the poet had finally succumbed to fake proclamation like a horizon disappearing behind so much well- shaped concrete vomit. I still wrote a little; when I didn't feel like my pal Bukowski stuck in a mailbox full of one thousand charmless women simultaneously explaining each and every detail of their equally charmless day. Age was certainly catching up to me, exactly how I used to say it never would. Eleven years. The world is still changing, and I don't have much time left to go. I think about what happened to that sexy rock poet, and of all his dead heroes who are in the ground now poisoning the flowers. I no longer care where my name ends up on the all-time greatest's list. I think about when I die, and how my life is supposed to flash before me. I can't imagine how it could ever flash before me any faster than it already has. [comments] => 1 [counter] => 146 [topic] => 21 [informant] => Adam_Gaucher [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 0 [ratings] => 0 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => Lifepoems )
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