Still have hard on for poetry.
Still get thrilled
drooling between the thighs
for the words to come out.
Don't care, don't care
if the public doesn't like the smell
nor the words at the same time
wondering why the Dane
gets jealous and walks into the room
of democracy and closes the door
of reality, dims the light of time as
she falls into the facial book of illusion.

Is she counting:
“How many cool friends do I have?”
while wondering if it's
all about being cool and hype?
as the world of penny
is burning up in flames by
the elite clan, of empowered
fear and immoral greed.

At the meantime dear Mr. Chinaski:
I want you to know that
you're good enough postman pat
just like me in the post office.
Because when all comes to all the
smell of normality
is just like a virgin it's
just like the handcuffed dream
slavery and it smells even more bitter.

Without the smell we could have been so cool
and so hyped and even got out
of our closet disease,
got out of their stupidity,
vanity and married with
simplicity by the children,
house and a car currency.
We could as well had been a blind
date affair from the social
book making love in our
wildest dreams in a corrupted
hopeless night in a cheap, cheat,
bonus supermarket as two John Does.

Instead we just have to accept
that we are bums and you are just a
so called “ poet friend” of
mine reading up in
myspace as I observe;
“The soldier, his wife and the bum” So
I can keep on looking cool and
hyped twirling in the echo's of
my existence in my bled out
hearted country but still with
a hard on for poetry.