Death and Dying
The night Hunter S. Thompson,
blew his head off,
Toy Box Tomato Girl,
went Gonzo Geisha on me.
Abandoning the old man’s love,
for pure unadulterated orgy,
intoxicating arms and legs,
intertwining lyrical sighs,
with bi young black,
and blond hard bodies,
tango tongues sharing saliva.
I assume the blue black hue,
of late night television,
as segregate candles,
was less exciting.
The night Hunter S. Thompson,
shot a hole in his skull,
Hemingway’s history,
lay on his boney lap.
The running of the bulls,
the crash in Castro’s Cuba,
the locking-up of papers,
the string of worldly wives,
aimless running away.
Toy Box Tomato Girl,
knew little of the artist face.
Being just twenty two,
she had yet to embrace,
life’s joys and tragedies.
Not quite able to end it all,
and not quite schooled,
in T.V. light literature,
spontaneously she fled.
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