Ozymandias – Percy Bysshe Shelley  

Manuscript found in Lord Byron’s bookcase

   

To Percy, light upon his waterbed.

  

I’m the Scorpion King.

  

Beware,

not the Camel King,

nor, albeit my rattling ways,

a snakish one.

   

My reign is a desolate wasteland

which I, myself, have created.

Where dumb-dumb Ozymandiases rust.

Where mythologies go to die

like an, oh so secretive, fart.

Far away enough of people so

they can pass quietly and unheard.

   

My reign is also of venom:

purulent, vicious.

Highly alcoholic melancholy,

not of lethargic rest but instead

breeder of anxious sleep,

of bad poetry during late hours

best served for onanistic endeavors.

   

¡Behold the Scorpion King!

   

¡Behold my drunkenness, ye mighty,

and compare:

the width of your temples

to the size of my ding-dong!

   

Only one of them remains.

Funny looking scorpion tail

amidst ass

and belly-button,

and hair.

   

Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night – Dylan Thomas

Rave

   

To Dylan, the bluffer.

   

Go drunk into that dark night,

rave,

rave with your self’s shadow,

dance.

  

Dance to electric, acid

drums. Go drunk

into that dark night alight

by fluorescent wristbands.

   

Rave against living, against dawn.

Lay bare, under a dark sky,

what we all

are.

   

Go to the bathroom stalls,

past the raving crowd,

break in line and start

a fist fight.

   

Get drunk

and scarred, animal.

Smile, neon bloodied,

at oblivion.

   

Rave against all

lights unflickering,

against all

unbroken bones,

   

against those who dance

and those who don’t:

be an asshole.

  

And dance, dance

electric seraph,

dance, dance

to acid drums.

    

Concerning Tobacco – Mark Twain

33

   

To young Mark. Always with one hand ocuppied. 

    

Children of thirty two

try to tell me what is a good cigar and what isn’t.

Me, who never learned to smoke, but always smoked;

me, who came into the world asking for a light.

   

Me, who when asked by a waitress

about the kind of beer I would prefer,

sweet, sour, toasted or fruity, always respond:

cold.

   

Me, who began going out

when I was seven.

Me, that have lived four hundred and fifty six weekends

without throwing up once.

   

Me, who stole my parent’s condoms

right after my last brother was conceived.

Me, who came from the uterus dancing

and when the nurses left the room, lighted a ciggy.