Picking up two six-packs after work to hell with dinner going to the apartment and stripping down to your shorts throwing your clothes on the floor climbing onto the bed no shower no bath sitting up against the pillow and cracking open the first tall beer can lighting a cigarette nothing to do nobody to talk to looking at the wallpaper yesterday’s dishes stacked in the sink look out the window the room getting darker open the second can of beer no wife no tv no children
sitting in your underwear drinking beer alone
everything’s gone the foreman the time clock the grocery store clerks the newspaper the coffee shops
Vallejo writing about loneliness while starving to death; Van Gogh’s ear rejected by a whore; Rimbaud running off to Africa to look for gold and finding an incurable case of syphilis; Beethoven gone deaf; Pound dragged through the streets in a cage; Chatterton taking rat poison; Hemingway’s brains dropping into the orange juice; Pascal cutting his wrists in the bathtub; Artaud locked up with the mad; Dostoevsky stood up against a wall; Crane jumping into a boat propeller; Lorca shot in the road by Spanish troops; Berryman jumping off a bridge; Burroughs shooting his wife; Mailer knifing his. —that’s what they want: a God damned show a lit billboard in the middle of hell. that’s what they want, that bunch of dull inarticulate safe dreary admirers of carnivals.