waiting for Kerouac
with no seatbelt on
fingers dancing
in sweltering hot
one hundred and ten
fast heat
smiling at the
BMW face-lifts
and 9 to 5ers
we know
your sons
want to fuck us
the long hair
hard cock
'new romantic'
poets
drunk on refusal
and stoned
on Kaufman's
ode to death
reciting
the fathers
we never had
in the halls
and cafes
of the men
we never
wanted to be
but maybe
the truth
is less romantic
and just like jack
we're all
too bored,
lonely
and stupid
to admit
our own
defeat