There was no room
For poetic bullshit
Only for a typewriter a radio
For long lonely nights
For Beethoven and beer
Or women who came and went
Down on him or he on them
He wrote about it later
Or about horse races or
Work at the post office or
Landlords and crazy neighbours
Or knives spinning or heat or fires
He wrote about the world how he saw it
Through a haze of anger and liquor
Words scared as his face
Lines sore as his back
Absolved a world full of
Sex pain trash and beauty
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Regis