15 minutes before noon
and no handle
anywhere;
death is a pig;
the jealous father murdered his young
son with candle wax;
i know a guy who hit 50 home runs
and never listened to Mozart once;
my car is out there:
all 4 tires flat
and a 49-year-old blonde with runs
in her panty hose
vomiting in the back seat.
there's no way to go but down
there's no way to go but up
in a
day crawling with spiders.
there's a time to weep
a time to die
and a time to live.
the phone rings and a woman asks me:
"St. George Hotel?"
"no, i answer, "this is little Peter Redhut."
"is Robert there?" she asks.
you might as well try to eat a sackful of s***
as attempt to locate the bunghole of a
flamingo.
when the bellboy finally arrives
he'll show you how to differentiate between the dead
and the
living:
one brings flowers
the other ignores them;
one speaks of love
the other doesn't need it;
one sleeps
the other becomes.
dirty language comes out of a
dirty life;
commas, semicolons, question marks,
periods
abound. the phone
rings again:
"is Robert there?"
she asks.
