Running

This poem is pretty much self-explanatory, I guess. I’ll let it speak for itself.

 

All my life has been the rain

and a busted up pen

with no ink in it.

When I go to the supermarket

to buy cheese and bread and alcohol,

I feel put out by the slow-walking,

offspring-producing normalfolk

who live their lives

oh so quietly.

Every time I turn a corner,

someone else is waiting.

Then there’s me,

and for a man who hates the limelight,

I love the limelight;

we have the same strange relationship

as my aching lungs

and a cardboard roach

at the tip of a dog-end.

I wish I had someone

to go twos with.

I write about smoking and drinking

far, far more than I ought to;

I’m not trying to be Bukowski, though:

I don’t like gambling

or racing horses.

I don’t even like

racing people.