UNDERGROUND VOICES: POETRY
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EPIPHANI SOILEAU
life.love.palm.headlines i wanna be a Cafe Beatnik in beat-up baseball caps with teams I never heard of over messy dark hair and my grunge look; picture me prolific spittin' verse one foot on Formica tabletops stained in grease and coffee spill paintings monumental to Regular #42: Mr. Frank, the guy whose cigarette is never lit but he swears he's a smoker, as if you'd advertise your method of suicide (but would you?) Picture me poetic flower prose on paint-chipped walls, something so important you felt the need to take that rusty-ass Bowie knife and carve it three inches deep in the cracked wood of table 26 (you're still washing dishes for that one, huh?) imagine I'm John Lennon Yeats Whitman cummings of the laureate loop, the writer incomparable- on the sidewalk in New York where people commune just to hear me think. I could believe in that, i could hope for it, if only I knew how to dream |
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