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Hair of the Dog
I put on my diving helmet-
One of those old fishbowl cages with the bolted plastic plate in the front like you see in old newsreels on YouTube-
And my cracked and hapless flippers
And stood on the edge of the skiff
Urged to the sea by Sartre,
I stared into my memory
And, shoved by Duchamp, I plunged
I woke with Dire Straits playing:
“Woke up this morning/ man I felt bad:
Worst hangover that I ever had”
I smiled, realizing that someone had poured me:
Chilled coke and chilled gin,
Into a coffee mug
With the remnant coffee dregs
And unwashed tea seeds
And I hoped to be drank.
I belted gospel
In my Catholic Catacombs
Where the soul was nurtured
By imposing figures imposing
Themselves on the Book
And on the brains
Of the barely-conscious children dragged from their playpens
And hushed by blushing mothers-
Torn between nurturing the baby’s soul and constructing a prison cold air
Of godliness-
And was told off by the priest
In the form of a form joke.
I plucked out confused, furtive spatterings
On my half-learned six-string
Clumsy fingers gliding from
One botched note
To the next unexpected tone
And look at the spot on my bed
Where I had refused a girl
(Because my left hand is so much less intimidating)
To the chagrin of my guitar teachers:
Camus, Ginsberg, and Vonnegut
I need a fix cause I'm going down
Down to the bits that I left uptown
I need a fix cause I'm going down
Mother Superior jumped the gun*
Water seeped through the cracks
Of the bolted plastic plate
As the pressure pressed through the protection.
I spat mouthfuls of images
And reached to protect my testicles
As the suit ripped at the seams
And I was overcome.
But I continue to sink.
*The Beatles (Happiness is a Warm Gun)
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